Columbia
by Sabraia
Summary: Sequel to 'The Blood of Freedom'. America and England have returned to their world, their terrible journey finally over. But, in the world they left, nothing is over. The British have claimed their victory, but when Canada assumes his new role as the personification of all of British North America, he discovers that the fires of rebellion were never fully quenched...
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note and Disclaimer: This is the sequel to a fic I just recently finished, 'The Blood of Freedom'. Make sure you've read that one FIRST, as this story will contain lots of references to that one (and very spoileriffic references at that), so some parts may be confusing.**

**Another thing to keep in mind is that I've got a full schedule this semester, and I'm drafting ideas for a fourth story (unrelated to anything else I've published so far). Said fourth story may or not be published concurrently with this one, so expect updates to be a little sporadic.**

**And, lastly, as I'm certain you are already aware: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Late November, 1780.

Two months after British troops had put an end to the American rebellion.

Inside the study of a mansion in the Virginian countryside, the personification of the British colonies of North America sat at a desk, with dozens of pages of notes scattered all over the desk's surface. Underneath all those notes was a spellbook, and, though the book sat open, the page it was opened to could barely be seen under all the other papers.

The colony that sat at the desk picked up each page of notes in turn, carefully studying them, and occasionally muttering things to himself. This was an exercise which he'd been carrying out since earlier that morning. He spent hours going over notes which he had taken days to compile, and he deliberately went slowly, so as not to miss any crucial details. Finally, when he was satisfied, he stuffed the notes inside the spellbook, and carried the spellbook with him into the cellar.

Setting the spellbook aside, Canada – or, British North America – spent the next several minutes lighting candles and placing them around the center of the floor in order to see what he was doing. Then, referring to the spellbook and all his notes, Canada drew an incantation circle on the cellar floor. When he finished, he stood in the center of the circle, holding the spellbook in one hand, and reaching into his coat pocket to retrieve a knife with the other.

Canada made a small cut on his arm, allowing the blood to drip onto the floor. He then put the knife back, and began to chant the incantation for the spell he had prepared.

He was so certain he had done everything right. All of the sigils had been drawn exactly as they had been shown in the book, and he'd practiced the incantation before, hoping his inflection and pronunciation were correct.

Canada's heart raced when he saw the circle begin to glow, just like the book had said.

_It's working!_ He thought.

He continued chanting, and his hopes soared even higher when he saw a transparent image begin forming inside the circle, that looked like the time and place that the magic was supposed to take him to. Turning a few pages in the spellbook, Canada began chanting the next spell in the complicated weave of magic he would need in order to pull this off.

Little did he know that he had already botched the first one. He had _not_ found the time and place he was looking for.

Canada finished casting his next spell, the image around him came into sharper focus. Only now did he realize there was a mistake.

"This… isn't West Point," he said.

Fighting back a sense of panic, he turned more pages, hoping he could correct his mistake. He spent a minute frantically searching his notes as well. Thinking he had found a solution, Canada tried another spell. He began chanting.

In his brief moment of panic, his pronunciation faltered, and the image vanished without warning.

_No! It's not supposed to do that! What did I just do?!_

Canada went back to the original spell, trying to bring the image back. He tried to force himself to remain calm, but was only having marginal success.

His mistakes kept mounting. He fumbled another phrase, and another image began to form, but it was not the image from before, nor was it the one Canada was looking for. This one was extremely bizarre, with things Canada had never seen before.

On either side of him were building walls, but even just the walls looked strange, like these were types of buildings Canada had never seen. The ground looked like black rock, and there were papers and cylindrical objects made out of brightly colored metal littering the ground. There were giant sacks made out of some strange black material next to the walls. When Canada looked ahead, at what little was visible of the street outside, he saw what he could only have described as weird carriages, made out of metal. None of them had horses pulling them, yet they raced past each other, as if driven by some invisible force.

Panic was surging through Canada's mind at the moment. He desperately tried again to fix his mistake. He began chanting yet again.

The image from earlier appeared, but this second image did not disappear yet. The armies that clashed in the first image ran right through the walls of the second image, and neither image appeared to be affected by the other.

_How do I make this stop?!_

Canada slammed the book shut and stepped out of the circle. Both images vanished.

Confused, angry and frustrated, Canada threw the book aside, and dropped to his knees. For several minutes, he stared blankly at the incantation circle, then gave up. He buried his face in his hands and wept.

_I can't do it, Alfred,_ he thought.

**(-)**

July, 1783. Nearly two years later…

Canada sat alone in the study of America's Virginia home once again, this time poring over a letter that he had written. Also scattered on the desk were letters he had recently received, and most of these sat on top of the spellbook. Two years later, and Canada had still managed to keep it hidden from England.

Just days after Canada's failed attempt at the time travel spell, England had showed up unannounced, and demanded the spellbook be given back.

For the first time in his life, Canada blatantly disobeyed his superior. Not only did he not give it back, but he denied having stolen it. England had smacked his colony hard across the cheek, with a warning that disobedience would be severely punished, and proceeded to search the mansion.

He never found it.

After failing at casting the spell, Canada had gone to great lengths to hide his attempt, in anticipation of the very thing England was now doing. Canada erased the circle, and hid the book in a hidden compartment in the cellar, which he remembered America had shown to him when Canada had come to visit at the end of the Seven Years' War. America had assured his brother that England had no idea that compartment was there.

Incensed that he couldn't find it, England tried interrogating Canada, demanding he tell him where it was hidden. Again, Canada insisted he hadn't stolen it; had never seen or touched it.

England was left with little choice but to leave and search elsewhere. But, as he left, he promised Canada that he would find it, and he warned a second time that disobedience would be punished.

But there had been tears in his eyes when he said it.

Now, two years later, England had probably calmed down, and Canada was wondering if he shouldn't just leave the spellbook somewhere that England could conveniently stumble upon it. The spellbook was useless to Canada now. Canada had already proven to himself that he didn't have enough command of magic to do what he had stolen it for – to travel back in time, to prevent America's death.

It had been two years. There was no bringing America back. It was time to move on.

Canada stood up, folded the letter and placed it in an envelope. He sealed it and pocketed it, then turned around, headed for the door. He left the mansion, and went to the gate, where there was a courier waiting for him.

"Deliver this letter to Samuel Adams, in Boston," Canada said, handing the letter over. "He'll be using the pseudonym 'Samson Travis'. Godspeed."

The courier left, and Canada went back inside. He returned to the study and picked all the letters off the desk. He nearly dropped the letters in his shock.

The spellbook was gone.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note: While this fic is set in an alternate history, relevant references to actual history will be explained in notes at the _end_ of each chapter. **

**Enjoy.**

* * *

Canada frantically searched the study, trying to find the spellbook. When he didn't find it, he ran back outside, hoping to catch the thief in his attempt to escape, but there was no one around for as far as Canada could see. He checked the rest of the mansion, wondering if the thief was perhaps still inside.

Again, no one.

_There's no way he could have escaped already; I would have seen him at _some _point,_ Canada thought.

He double checked in the study, but got the same result as before. The spellbook was gone. Vanished.

_Did England find out I had it after all? _Canada wondered. _He was the only one that could have known I had it, and he's the only one who could have wanted it…_

Canada stared wide-eyed at the desk, and the letters scattered on it.

_If he found out I had the spellbook, what else does he know?_ Canada thought. _Does he know that I found surviving fugitives from the Revolution as well?_

Canada picked up a handful of the letters, thinking. All of the letters' hidden messages were very carefully coded, but could still be deciphered by someone with sufficient skill in spy work.

Someone like England.

Canada hurriedly sorted through all the letters, checking to make sure none had been stolen or tampered with. To his surprise, none of the letters were missing, and there was no evidence of tampering. No one had touched them.

"Thank God," Canada breathed, setting the letters back on the desk.

However, the fact still remained that someone had managed to sneak into the house, steal the spellbook, and leave undetected. It ultimately didn't matter who the culprit was; this place was no longer safe. Canada needed to leave, and take all those letters with him, before someone else broke into the mansion and stole them.

Canada ran through the house, packing only items that he would need, and stuffing all the letters into a pouch. When he had everything he needed, he went outside, mounted his horse, and fled.

He rode for days on end, only stopping at night to rest in nearby towns or homes on his journey. For the first several days, the ride went smoothly. However, eventually, Canada's route required him to make a stop in New York.

As he made his way through the city, Canada noticed British regulars on patrol almost everywhere he looked. It had been two – almost three years since the end of the war, but England still insisted on keeping troops stationed all over the place. It was supposed to be a precautionary measure, to prevent rebellion from breaking out again.

Canada tightened his grip on the reins. He deliberately avoided eye contact with the soldiers, and continued on his way. He didn't want to stay in New York any longer than necessary. One night in an inn, and then he would be gone by the next morning.

That night, after finding a room, Canada found it unusually difficult to fall asleep. When he collapsed onto the bed, physically exhausted from the day's ride, he ended up staring at the ceiling for hours on end. More than once, he would unconsciously grab the sheets and curl his hands into fists, then realize what he was doing five minutes later and unclench his hands.

Cursing under his breath, Canada gave up and got out of bed. He paced the room for a while, trying to clear his mind. When he lay back down, he took several deep breaths, hoping to relax enough to finally get some sleep.

He didn't get nearly the amount of sleep he had hoped for. After a very short night's rest, Canada got up early the following morning, and prepared to leave New York.

Someone flagged him down just as he was leaving the inn.

"What? Who is this…?" Canada muttered to himself as he came to a halt, watching the figure approach.

"Alfred? Mr. Jones, is that you?"

Canada winced. This wasn't the first time someone had mistaken him for America. And, given the circumstances, Canada knew he couldn't blame them, but the reminder was still painful. He wasn't America; he was his replacement.

The figure came closer, and Canada noticed that it was a young man – probably in his late twenties – but try as he might, he couldn't recognize this individual from anywhere.

_He sounds like he knew Alfred personally though, _Canada thought. _He must be another survivor!_

The man came to a halt just a few feet away, looking at Canada expectantly. After a few seconds, his bright countenance darkened a bit, and he looked a little confused.

"You've changed," he said. "Your hair is longer, and your eyes look… lighter."

Canada shook his head sadly. "I'm sorry, sir," he said. "But I'm not Alfred."

The young man's face fell, and he stepped backward.

"My apologies, sir," he said. "But you looked very much like a man I know; I thought you were him."

"I'm his brother, Matthew," Canada said quickly, seeing the man was about to leave.

The man stopped.

"Matthew?" he repeated, his eyebrows going up slightly. He looked off in the distance for a moment, as if trying to recall something, but quickly refocused his attention on Canada.

"You are here to visit, then?" he asked.

"I am not visiting," Canada said. "I live here."

The other man frowned. "Strange," he muttered. "Alfred said you lived in Canada…"

Canada shook his head. "I used to," he explained. Waving his hand as if to dismiss the topic, he then changed the subject.

"May I ask what your name is, sir? You sound like were a friend of my brother."

"Alexander Hamilton. Alfred and I served under General Washington."

_That name doesn't sound familiar, _Canada thought. _He must have been a lower ranking officer, if the British didn't bother to hang him after the war ended._

Hamilton cast a surreptitious glance at his surroundings, then added, with a lowered voice, "Forgive my impertinence, but I must ask: where is your brother? I… haven't seen him since the Battle of West Point. If you could take me to him, I would like to speak with him."

Canada inwardly winced again. _He was there, and he didn't see what happened?_ he thought. _Samuel Adams didn't know, but he wasn't there, so… _

"I'm sorry, Mr. Hamilton," Canada said. "But, Alfred was killed in the Battle of West Point."

"Oh…" Hamilton lowered his gaze. When he looked back up, he gave Canada an apologetic look, then added, "I fought in that battle, but I didn't see… what happened to him. I had no idea…"

There was an uncomfortable pause.

_I wonder if he knew what Alfred was… _Canada thought. _And, by extension, what I am. If he doesn't know yet, he probably will…_

"I… had to move here after I received word of his death," Canada said. He looked down, thinking of how to word his next sentence.

_America did say, early on in his Revolution, that he wasn't England's brother anymore. So, I suppose…_

"I'm his only next of kin. When he died, I inherited his estate…" Canada continued.

Hamilton looked slightly confused. "So, you moved here to take care of it? What of your home in Canada?"

"I may return there, when I find the time," Canada replied. "But, for now, my priority is here."

Hamilton nodded his understanding, and turned to go again.

"Before you leave," Canada said abruptly, causing Hamilton to halt in his tracks yet again. He lowered his voice to a whisper, and continued, "Do you know of any… other men from the war, who knew Alfred?"

Hamilton's eyebrows went up slightly. "Men that escaped prison and execution, you mean," he whispered in response. He looked thoughtful for a moment.

"Just one," Hamilton said. "But he's in Spain."

Canada frowned. _Who did America send to Spain?_

"When will he return?" he asked.

"I don't know."

Canada looked away for a moment, tapping his chin thoughtfully. There was nothing he could think of at the moment. Whoever this man was that had been sent to Spain, he was probably in similar straits with Adams and Franklin, which meant he was not likely to ever leave the country. There was little good that could be done if that was the case.

"Thank you, Mr. Hamilton. I hope to see you again."

Hamilton nodded, and he and Canada went their separate ways.

**(-)**

Canada left New York and crossed the Hudson River, going at a much slower pace than he had taken over the past few days. This path was not part of his original route, but it was nearby, and Canada had decided, shortly after his meeting with Hamilton that he wanted to investigate something.

Canada rode on the road on the west side of the Hudson, and traveled north. As he rode north, he heard the sounds of a British patrol somewhere ahead of him. He pulled his horse to a sudden stop.

Fort West Point was just a few miles to the north. These were probably soldiers that had been stationed there, and were just patrolling the area.

_I can understand why England keeps soldiers in the towns,_ Canada thought with disgust. _But why does he insist on keeping soldiers in the forts too? The war's over; that's no longer necessary…_

Canada steered his horse off the road, and continued riding through the nearby forest, finding a spot to hide, but where he could still see the road. When the patrol came into view, Canada stopped his horse again, holding as still as possible so as not to make any sound. He waited in tense silence while the patrol passed him, completely oblivious to his presence. After they disappeared from view, Canada waited a bit longer, listening carefully if they decided to double back, then resumed his northward journey.

As he neared West Point, Canada knew he would have to stay off the road completely. He would probably have to dismount as well. For now, Canada kept riding, until he reached a small clearing. There he dismounted, and tied the reins to a tree.

He was about to leave when he noticed something odd on the other side of the clearing. It didn't look like part of the underbrush.

"What is that?" he mused aloud.

Canada walked over to it, and noticed that it was actually a cross, made out of two pieces of wood.

_A grave marker? In the middle of the forest, half a mile from West Point?_

Canada had a terrible feeling he knew whose grave this was. There was something written on the horizontal piece, and Canada knelt down to get a closer look, trying to read it.

"Alfred F. Jones," he read aloud.

He was right.

_It looks like England had the decency to give him a proper burial, at least,_ Canada thought. _But he never told me…_

It was quiet in the clearing for over a minute. During that time, Canada just sat there, staring blankly at the grave.

"It takes three years, and I end up finding your grave by accident," Canada said, shaking his head. "England never said a word, so I thought you'd just ended up with the rest of the casualties…"

Canada stood up, still shaking his head.

_Why am I doing this to myself? I should've known that something like this might've happened when I decided to come here…_

Canada went back to where his horse was tied and untied the reins. He'd been here long enough.

However, at that moment, just as Canada had mounted his horse and was about to leave, he felt a sudden surge of anger and adrenaline rush through him. He felt pain as well, but it was numbed by the adrenaline.

"What is happening…?"

Canada turned his attention inward, trying to pinpoint what had happened, and where. In Quebec, where he had a population of potentially rebellious French colonists, there was nothing. In nearby New York, one of the areas hardest hit by the failed Revolution, and was likely to have occasional sparks of rebellion, nothing. In the southern colonies, all was quiet. Canada looked further north, to the rest of his brother's colonies.

He found it.

Boston. There was a riot.

Of course, the British redcoats that England had left there were undoubtedly already on the scene – if they hadn't provoked the fighting to start with – and were trying to restore order. Canada wasn't there, and thus couldn't actually see what was happening, but he knew this was going to end in bloodshed.

Cursing under his breath, Canada dug his heels into his horse's side, and rode out of the clearing, but not without one last glance at America's grave.

_Your rebellion started in Boston… Is this what your 'Boston Massacre' felt like, Alfred?_

* * *

**Ending notes: During the American Revolution, Alexander Hamilton was an officer serving under Washington's command. My personal headcanon is that, while he wasn't of high enough rank to be informed about the nations, he probably figured it out himself and never said anything.**

**The guy Hamilton says is still in Spain is John Jay. In actual history, he negotiated and signed the Treaty of Paris (along with several others, including Ben Franklin). Before that, he was an ambassador to Spain (and talked the Spanish into giving the Americans money to fund the war).**

**The Boston Massacre... was not really a massacre. It was a fight, started by colonists, who were throwing snowballs at British soldiers, who responded by opening fire, killing five men.**


	3. Chapter 3

**Author's Note: I'm sorry this is so late, but there's always one thing or another getting in the way. **

**Well, anyway, here you go. Hopefully I'll have the next one up quicker.**

* * *

Canada did not reach Boston for several days after leaving New York. By the time he got there, things had calmed down, but only slightly. There were no angry crowds harassing the British soldiers, at least.

Tension was still high, and Canada could feel it. He didn't even need his personification status to be able to tell, it was so obvious. People were avoiding the soldiers, and Canada could hear the occasional disparaging remark whispered as he walked around.

Studiously ignoring the colonists and soldiers around him, Canada kept going, heading to a specific house in the city. There was someone there he needed to see.

A little while later, Canada reached the house without incident. He knocked on the door. Seconds later, a middle-aged man answered, and he recognized Canada immediately, quickly ushering him inside.

"Matthew!" he said as he was closing the door behind Canada. "I did not expect to see you here; has something happened?"

"Apart from a few days ago, you mean…" Canada said. "Yes, I'm afraid something has happened…"

He took his coat off and led the man into the next room. There was a pair of chairs next to a table on one side of the room, and a fireplace on the opposite wall. Canada took a seat in the nearest chair, while Adams sat down in the other chair.

"I must apologize; I've been careless, and that carelessness almost got you discovered, Mr. Adams," he continued. "Someone broke into Alfred's Virginia home, where I've been keeping your letters."

Adams' eyebrows shot up.

"They've been stolen?" he asked.

Canada shook his head. "Thankfully, no," he said. "I found no evidence of tampering either. But, to be safe, I took them with me and left."

"Destroy them," Adams said flatly. "You don't want to risk those letters being found."

Canada blinked.

"Uh – yes, I'll do that," he said awkwardly. "But, speaking of letters… has the courier delivered my latest letter?"

Adams reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a folded piece of paper.

"Just yesterday," he said. "I was about to write my reply when you knocked on my door."

Canada waved his hand dismissively.

"That won't be necessary anymore," he said.

Silence fell on the room for a minute. Canada stared at the floor, while Adams patiently waited for him to continue.

"Mr. Williams?" Adams said quietly.

"Do you know a man named Alexander Hamilton?" Canada asked finally, returning his attention to Mr. Adams.

Adams furrowed his brow, searching his memory.

"The name is familiar, yes," Adams replied. "But I'm afraid I don't know the man very well. I only met him while I was a delegate in the Continental Congress, years ago. Why?"

Canada shrugged. "I was just wondering," he said. "I ran into him the other day. He apparently knew Alfred personally, so I thought… "

He trailed off and looked away. "Never mind… I don't know…"

"You've found another one of Alfred's friends," Adams said.

Canada said nothing, and, for almost a minute, it was quiet. During this lull in the conversation, Adams stood up and went over to the fireplace, and began to kindle a fire.

"What are you doing?" Canada asked.

Once he had managed to get the fire going, Adams walked over to his chair. Instead of sitting down, however, he looked pointedly at Canada while gesturing at the fire.

"Destroy the letters," Adams said.

Canada reached into his pouch and withdrew the letters. He walked over to the fireplace and tossed them all into the fire, then just stood there, watching the papers burn. Only when the fire had totally consumed the letters did Canada finally return to his seat.

"We will continue our correspondence," Canada said distractedly, still looking at the fire.

Adams nodded. "Yes. However, I would advise committing the information in my letters to memory, and then destroying the letter," he said.

Canada nodded his understanding, then abruptly changed the subject.

"What happened here, a few days ago?" he asked.

Adams frowned, confused.

"I thought you knew; you mentioned it as you came in," he said.

Canada shook his head. "I knew there was a riot, but I didn't see how it started, or what happened," he clarified. "Did you see it?"

"No. But I heard about it from others…"

"…And?"

Adams threw his arms up as if in frustration.

"Nobody can agree on what happened. Some say the British soldiers started the fighting, others say someone threw something at the soldiers, and they retaliated…"

Canada let out a heavy sigh and lowered his gaze to the floor.

"Never mind then…" he said quietly.

He stared contemplatively at the floor for a minute, but eventually lifted his gaze again, and focused his attention on Adams.

"Do you know how your cousin John is doing?" he asked.

Adams shook his head. "I sent a letter months ago, but have received no reply as of yet," he said. "It's possible that he has written back, but you know how long it takes for those ships to get across the Atlantic…"

Canada nodded slowly. "In that case, I will wait," he said. "Thank you, Samuel."

With that, he abruptly stood up and put his coat back on. As he was about to make his way to the door, Adams stood up as well, and signaled Canada to stop. Canada halted, facing Adams with a questioning look.

"When should I expect to hear from you again?" Adams asked.

"I don't know," Canada replied. "I will probably show up unannounced, again."

"Very well," Adams said. "Farewell, Mr. Williams. And be careful."

Canada nodded his understanding, then headed for the door. He left the house, and went to where he had left his horse.

_That was pointless,_ he thought as he mounted the horse and took off. _There's no one else in Boston that I know of that Alfred knew, so there's no point in staying here either…_

As he rode out of Boston, Canada mentally ran through the very short list of America's revolutionaries that he knew had escaped the noose after the end of the war. Surely there was someone he could talk to…

Unfortunately, the only people that came to mind were out of reach.

_John Adams and Ben Franklin are in Papa's country, and Hamilton mentioned someone was in Spain's country,_ Canada thought. _I don't know what role Hamilton played in the war, other than that he was in the Continental Army. I wonder if it'll be worth the effort to try to establish communications with him like I have with Samuel Adams._

Of course, in order to find out, Canada would have to go right back to New York.

_I should have stayed down there, rather than come up here to investigate that riot,_ Canada scolded himself. _I should have expected it; it was probably bound to happen at some point. Besides, it's not like I can expect anything to come of it… England left those soldiers there for that specific reason. To crush any attempts at rebellion. Again._

Canada pulled his horse to a halt.

"Damn it…"

He dismounted, even though he hadn't even left the city yet, and he spent several minutes just standing there, glaring at the ground, wondering what to do. Several passersby were giving him strange looks, but he didn't care.

_I can't do anything, really. Not until I see John Adams' reply to Samuel's letter._

Canada got back on his horse, then turned around, having decided not to leave Boston just yet. He rode through the city, eventually stopping at a mansion in one of the richer districts.

_This was America's home in the Massachusetts colony,_ Canada thought. _I guess it's mine now… may as well stay here for the night, then._

Surprisingly, it had been untouched by the British during their raids of the city in the last months of 1780. It had been left empty for at least three years now, and was still in good condition. Apparently, not even thieves or vandals had bothered to touch it either. The almost pristine condition of the house made Canada wonder if there were squatters living there.

He dismounted and tied the horse to the fence, then went to the door. When he tried it, it turned out to be locked, so Canada briefly cast about for something he could use to pick the lock. Unable to find anything, he forced the door open with his bare hands, then let himself inside.

Everything was covered in several years' worth of dust. There really hadn't been anyone in here.

Canada walked around, exploring the house and familiarizing himself with the layout. Most of the rooms were in varying levels of disarray, though the study and the master bedroom were the worst. The bed had not been made, and the wardrobe doors stood wide open, with the clothes either strewn on the floor or hung in seemingly random arrangement within the wardrobe. In the study, there were books and loose papers scattered all over the desk, but a few books and papers had apparently been dropped onto the floor. From the look of things, when America had last been here, he had left in a hurry.

After a while, when he had explored the entire house, Canada went into the master bedroom and collapsed on the bed. Within minutes, he was asleep.

When Canada awoke, it was pitch black in the room. He looked out the window, and noticed it was night outside. Waiting until his eyes adjusted to the darkness, Canada eventually got out of bed and fumbled around, looking for a candle to light. There was one candle on the armoire beside the bed, but it took Canada a minute of wandering around the room to find something with which to light the candle.

With the lit candle in hand, Canada slowly navigated his way through the house. He went into the parlor and set the candle down on the table, then sat on one of the chairs next to the table, resting his chin on one hand.

The clock on the wall was showing a few minutes before eleven, but after staring at it for several minutes, Canada realized the clock was not working. It had probably stopped working quite some time ago.

Boredom eventually drove Canada to get up and start wandering the house again. He went to the study, picked up the fallen books and papers from the floor, and began to put everything back as neatly as possible. First, he put all the books back on the shelves on the wall, but when he got to the loose papers, Canada found something odd.

Several of these 'papers' were actually letters, and every single one of them was still sealed. When Canada looked closely, he immediately recognized the seal on the letters.

These had been sent by England himself. But America had never bothered to read any of them.

_These are probably years old,_ Canada thought. _There's no point in keeping them now._

However, out of morbid curiosity, Canada picked up one of the letters and opened it anyway. As Canada suspected, the letter was quite old; 1773, in fact. He skimmed through the letter.

These letters – or, at least, this one – had been part of England's attempts to curtail unrest in the colonies before the war had broken out. Apparently England had tried asking America directly to control his citizens, though Canada was struck by some of the language used; he noticed England kept using words like 'traitors' and 'treason' to refer to the colonists and their activities.

"But this is from before the war even started…" Canada muttered.

Canada picked up the other letters, and was tempted to read them as well, but thought better of it. For over a minute, he merely stood there, staring blankly at the wall, thinking.

After a minute's deliberation, Canada returned to the parlor with the letters in hand. He set the letters on the table, then checked the fireplace. It was empty. Canada went back to the table and picked up the letters.

_If America never bothered to read these, why did he keep them?_

Canada looked back and forth between the letters in his left hand, and the candle in his right.

_I suppose it doesn't matter anymore, now that America's gone… there's no point in holding onto these for him._

He tossed all but one of the letters into the empty fireplace. Only the letter he had opened remained in his hand. He held it over the candle's flame until the paper caught fire. Canada watched it burn for a few seconds, then knelt down and set the burning letter on top of the other letters. The other letters slowly and gradually caught fire as well.

Canada watched the fire consume the letters, and when the fire eventually ran out of fuel, and ultimately went out, he returned to the bedroom. He blew the candle out and got into bed, and spent the rest of the night trying to get to sleep.


	4. Chapter 4

February, 1784. Six months later…

As soon as the ship was docked, England disembarked as quickly as he could, setting foot on the docks of Boston Harbor. He briefly scanned his surroundings; dozens of colonists were going to and fro about their business, though they were careful to avoid contact with the redcoats patrolling the area. Both colonists and soldiers were oblivious to England's presence, but, since he was dressed as a civilian, that was to be expected.

England sighed heavily and left the dock, heading into town. He hated Boston. He did not want to be here, but there were things that needed to be dealt with, and dealt with _now,_ before they got… worse.

Unrest and fights, starting in the Massachusetts colony – and the city of Boston in particular – had sparked the last war. And the news England had received a few months ago of rioting in Boston was giving him a sickening sense of déjà vu.

_Please, Canada… don't do what your brother did… _England thought.

After several minutes, England reached the front gate of America's house in Boston. The gate was unlocked, so England let himself onto the premises. He went up to the front door and knocked. Less than a minute later, the door opened, and there stood Canada.

"England?" Canada asked, the surprise obvious in his tone.

"Matthew," England responded. "Sorry about the surprise visit, but there are some things we need to discuss."

"Of course…"

Canada lowered his gaze, stepped backward and gestured for England to come inside. He shot a glare at England behind the British nation's back as he closed the door.

_What are you doing here?_ Canada wondered.

England seated himself on one of the chairs in the parlor. Canada followed him into the parlor, but did not sit down right away. First, he checked on the fire in the fireplace, making sure it wasn't about to go out. Then, he straightened himself, and returned his attention to England.

"Tea, sir?" Canada asked.

"Yes."

Canada quickly left the parlor, heading for the kitchen, where he began to prepare the tea. He returned to the parlor a few minutes later with the tea, and offered a cup to England. When England had taken his tea, Canada sat down in the chair opposite him, but did not pour any tea for himself.

It was uncomfortably quiet in the room while England sipped his tea. Eventually, he set his cup down and looked directly at Canada, and got right to the point.

"A few months ago, I received word of a riot here in Boston," England said. "Apparently, some of your colonists assaulted my men, and there was a rather large fight."

Canada said nothing, even though after a few seconds, it became apparent that England was expecting a reply.

"Well?" England said. "What do you know of what happened?"

Canada gave a slight shrug.

"I was in New York at the time," he replied. "I didn't see what happened. All I know is what the people have been telling me. And some of them… say the soldiers provoked the fight…"

"Indeed."

Canada inwardly winced at England's harsh tone.

_Is this the same tone you used with America before the war broke out?_ Canada thought. _And you called his colonists 'traitors' in your letters as well? _

"Regardless of how it started," England said. "It needs to stop. I don't want to hear of any more riots."

Canada's eyes went wide. _And how do you expect me to do that?_

"Sir, I can hardly assume direct control of the people…" he said quietly.

"I know," England said curtly. "You don't need to. All you have to do is quell the rebel-rousers that would spark another rebellion."

_I thought that was what your soldiers were for…_

"…Yes, sir," Canada said, after a brief hesitation.

England took another sip of tea. When he set the cup down, he let out a small sigh, and stared intently at the tabletop for a moment.

"Good," he said at last. He stood up.

Canada frowned. "Is that… all you wanted to discuss?"

"That is all for the time being, yes," England replied. "There are some trade agreements that I would like to go over, but not today. I will return in a few days' time…"

England made his way back to the door. Canada opened the door for him, and England hesitantly stepped over the threshold. As he stepped onto the porch, England turned around, facing Canada once more.

"I understand the colonists are probably still upset," he said, looking very pointedly at Canada as he spoke. "But, please understand that the riots will only make their situation worse. That is why I want it stopped. It's for their good, and yours."

Canada nodded, and slowly closed the door while England went on his way.

After England left, Canada returned to the parlor and picked up the tray with the tea pot. There was still a lot of tea left, he noticed, so he set the tray back down. He picked up England's empty cup, and set it on the tray beside the tea pot.

He paused for a moment to glance around the room and think. His gaze drifted from the tray, to the fire in the fireplace, to the door leading to the foyer.

Shaking his head, Canada sat down and picked up the empty tea cup, closing his hand around it. For several minutes, he sat there, staring at the fire, thinking over the conversation he'd just had.

_England sailed all the way across the Atlantic to tell me to stop the riots in Boston,_ Canada thought. He let out a small, mirthless chuckle. _He should know I can't do that… he wasted his time._

Unconsciously, Canada clenched his hand into a fist.

_I know he was trying to hide it, but he was angry, too. At the people. At me. And it's not even my fault…_

The tea cup shattered under the pressure from Canada's fist, causing him to jump slightly. He recovered quickly, however, and slowly and carefully picked up the pieces of shattered china. Holding the shards in one hand, Canada got up, thinking to throw them away, but stopped before even making it more than two paces away from his chair.

"Damn it, Alfred," he muttered. "Why couldn't you have won?"

Tears blurred Canada's vision, and he threw the teacup shards into the fireplace. He collapsed back down in his chair, resting his head in his hands.

_No, it's not America's fault, either,_ he told himself. _England's the one who killed him, and turned me into America's replacement._

Canada picked up the tea pot and strode over to the fireplace, deliberately spilling the tea onto the burning logs. Once he had spilled all of the tea out, Canada briefly considered destroying the tea pot as well, but thought better of it. He returned it to the tray.

_And it's also England who expects me to roll over and do everything he asks like a good, obedient colony. He wants those riots stopped because he's scared I'll start another revolution._

Canada froze. The idea had not occurred to him before; for one thing, he knew better than to think that he had any chance. After all, England could probably crush a second rebellion as easily as he had the first one. Canada shook his head, trying to dismiss the thought from his mind.

_Even if I were to try that, I'd need help anyway. But, I don't think I could talk the other nations into it. America's revolution failed; why should the other nations bankrupt themselves backing another failure?_

No matter how he looked at it, Canada could not see himself successfully rebelling against England. Either he would lose, and be right back where he started, or worse, he would end up like America.

There was, however, a third option. Canada could just continue living the way he was now, in quiet subservience to the British Empire. Maybe if he just waited a few years, the rebellious sentiment in places like Boston would quiet down, the economy would recover, and he could move on.

Canada cursed under his breath. None of those options appealed to him. He sat down in the chair, feeling a mounting sense of unease. Only part of it was due to the dilemma he faced, however.

During his stay in Boston, news of the riot had spread, and was starting to rouse controversy among the people.

"What should I do…?" he muttered.

**(-)**

As promised, England returned a few days later to discuss trade. He and Canada had a productive discussion, reached some agreements, but never broached the subject of the riot. However, that did not mean that it was forgotten; Canada could occasionally see hints of anger and fear in England's eyes, despite the empire's attempts to hide it.

The meeting ended and England left. He did not return; in fact, over the course of several weeks, Canada saw no sign of him anywhere in Boston.

_Did he return to London already?_ Canada wondered.

Ultimately, it made no difference where England had gone. Canada didn't care where he went; just so long as he was gone. And, if he really had left the colonies, so much the better.

Meanwhile, during those weeks after England had left, Canada had also grown increasingly restless. He was getting tired of Boston, so, one day in early March, he packed a handful of necessities and left America's Boston home, taking care to make sure everything was locked. Canada then mounted his horse and rode out of the city.

Unfortunately, he wasn't sure where to go. He didn't feel like returning to the mansion in Virginia, nor did he want to go to New York. There didn't really seem to be a need to go anywhere, in fact. Not in America's lands, anyway.

_I haven't been in my own colonies since America's death,_ Canada realized. _Maybe it's time I visited my own home for a while…_

It didn't take long for him to make up his mind. Canada rode north, headed for his original colonial home, in Quebec.

He knew that news of the riot had reached his own colonies. Though, for the most part, his own people had been apathetic at the news. Then again, the colonists of Canada had not lost a war for independence from the British crown. Maybe things would be more peaceful in his original homeland, then.

However, Canada's first home was Quebec, where France had found and adopted him. The colonists there were French, and undoubtedly resented British rule. Canada should not have been surprised at what he found when he set foot in his old homeland.

Anti-British sentiment in French Canada had grown during his absence. Things had not escalated to violence yet, partly because there was significantly less British military presence here. However, if England caught wind of what Canada's French colonists were saying, that was bound to change in a heartbeat.

_But if he puts troops here, wouldn't that make people even angrier?_

Canada shook his head. He kept going, trying to ignore the voices of his people, and focused on getting to his destination.

After days of traveling, Canada finally arrived at his house in Quebec City. He went inside, and immediately went about distracting himself with cleaning and tidying up the place, which had been untouched for nearly four years. He dusted everything, swept the floor of every room, rearranged things. Eventually, he came to the master bedroom, and went to the wardrobe to sort through his old clothes.

The first thing he saw upon opening the wardrobe doors was a bright red military uniform. He felt a pang in his chest, and took a step backward.

_My uniform,_ Canada thought. _I wore that when I fought with England against America in his revolution…_

Hesitantly, Canada reached for the uniform and took it out of the wardrobe. He stared intently at it for several minutes.

"_I'm not his brother anymore. I'm going to be my own country from now on… and I had hoped you would join me…_" America had said that years ago, just days before he and his men had been driven out of Quebec by Canada himself, with the help of Canadian militia and British regulars.

Canada flinched at the memory, and felt a surge of guilt and regret.

_Should I have sided with him? Would it have changed the outcome of the war?_

There would be no point in speculating about it now. The damage had already been done.

America's words kept repeating in Canada's mind. _Not his brother… not his brother… not his brother…_

It had only been four years. The wounds were not yet healed, but they were about to get torn wide open. There was too much bitter anti-British sentiment spreading through the colonies for Canada – or England – to ignore.

_I am not England's brother!_

"No, you're not..."

Canada turned the coat inside out and took it with him out of the room. Then, he went and found the satchel he'd brought with him, and shoved the coat into it.

It seemed his stay here wasn't going to be as long as he had originally hoped. He wasn't leaving immediately, though; there were still things he needed to do, but as soon as he finished, he would need to head south again. This time, his destination would be the Pennsylvania colony.

Canada went into the study and tossed the satchel aside. Taking a seat at the desk, he reached for the quill, inkwell and some paper, and began to write.

* * *

**End-of-chapter notes: The Invasion of Quebec (late 1775) was a failed attempt by the Americans to take control of the British Province of Quebec. That's what is referenced by Canada driving America out of Quebec.**

**The phrase 'turncoat' originates from the English Civil War. Defectors turned their coats inside out when they switched sides.**


	5. Chapter 5

Canada only stayed in Quebec for a week; just long enough to write a few letters and arrange a meeting with some acquaintances – officers that he'd met in the last two wars. He left them with some specific instructions, then returned to his house.

He handed his first letter to a courier, with instructions to deliver the letter to Samson Travis, of Boston. The second letter was sent to Alexander Hamilton in New York. The third and final letter would have to be sent across the Atlantic; it was addressed to Francis Bonnefoy.

With the letters having been sent, and the officers set to their task, Canada mounted his horse and left Quebec. He maintained a leisurely pace; there was no particular reason to hurry to his next destination, especially since there would be little he could do once he got there until he got a response to at least one of his letters.

Canada rode south, passing straight through New York, and going into Pennsylvania. Finally, he reached his destination: Philadelphia.

He went straight to the Pennsylvania State House and let himself inside. Ignoring whatever was going on in the Supreme Court Room, Canada headed into the Assembly Room, on the opposite side of the hall. Fortunately for him, the room was not being used at the moment. Canada slowly meandered through the room, examining his surroundings.

Everything was neatly arranged. Whoever had last been in here had been careful to make sure everything was put away properly when they were done. The room appeared to have been recently swept and dusted as well.

Canada gave up on distracting himself with everything in the room, and went looking for the object he had come here for. He went to the large desk at the far end of the room.

_This is the place where England made me sign that document giving me America's colonies,_ Canada thought. _It should still be in here, somewhere._

It proved easy to find; it was in the top drawer of the desk. Canada pulled it out, unrolled it, and stared at it. He noted the two signatures on the bottom, but his attention quickly turned to the actual document. As he remembered, he had only skimmed over it last time. Now, morbid curiosity overtook him and he reread it, slowly and carefully.

"Human personification status, as representing the entirety of the British Colonies of North America, is hereby granted to Matthew Williams. He shall possess all of the land and its people, and, as a consequence of that possession, shall be subject to every variance in the economic and social health of the colonies," Canada read aloud.

_Just as well I didn't read this. This isn't saying anything I wouldn't have already known when England told me I'd be standing for America._

He kept reading.

"He shall be sole possessor of the colonies, and shall be answerable and accountable to the British Empire for all events that transpire within his colonies. As the British colonies of North America, he and his people are entitled the same rights as their British brethren…"

Canada paused and put the paper down on the desk, letting out a mirthless laugh.

_I don't think America would have agreed about that one,_ he thought. He picked up the document again. _What else does England say here?_

"No other human personification may partition, even temporarily, any part of the colonies that are personified by Matthew Williams. He has no power to divide the colonies, or to give any portion to another personification, except it be done with the permission of the British Empire. He shall also be strictly forbidden from attempting to dissolve any of his colonies, nor shall he in any event be removed of his personification status. In addition, he and his colonies, as possessions of the British Empire, possess no right or ability to legally secede or revolt from the mother country."

Canada slammed the paper down on the table.

_Of course he would put that there…_

Canada was silent and motionless for several minutes. He didn't bother to pick the paper back up to finish reading it. Instead, he took to pacing in front of the desk, staring intently at the floor.

_It's just a piece of paper,_ he thought. _The paper isn't what makes me the personification… even if it was, this contract is no longer even worth the paper it's written on._

Canada reached for the document. He took a moment to look at his and England's signatures, then, gripping the opposite ends of the paper, tore it in half. Then, he stuffed the torn paper into his coat pocket.

He was about to leave the room, but balked on his way to the door. Returning to the desk, Canada sorted through the drawers, as if looking for something else. To his disappointment, he didn't find anything else of interest to him in that desk. Giving up on the desk, Canada headed for the door a second time, and this time he left the room.

Upon returning to his horse, Canada reached into the saddlebags and retrieved the military uniform, which was still inside out. He pulled the torn contract out of his pocket and put it inside the coat, folding the coat around the papers, and then returned the coat to the saddlebag. He then mounted his horse and rode over to America's Philadelphia home, where he planned to stay until he received word from his contacts.

A few days into the wait, Canada had received no letters from anyone. One afternoon, while he was reading a book in the parlor, Canada started to feel like something was wrong.

A dull headache had developed barely a day after settling into the Philadelphia house, and while Canada had managed to ignore it for a while, it not only did not go away after several days, but was slowly getting worse. The more he tried to focus on his book, the more he noticed the pain, and couldn't concentrate. Heaving an exasperated sigh, Canada put the book down and walked around, massaging his temples as he did so.

"What's going on, and where…?" he muttered.

He turned his attention inward, looking for the source of the headache. Unfortunately, he couldn't find anything in particular.

Just when he was about to give up and sit back down, Canada suddenly felt searing pain in his side. His hand flew to his side, and he let out a small gasp of pain. He lifted his shirt and inspected his side. A small cut had appeared, and some of the blood had stained the inside of his shirt.

"What?"

Canada looked inward again, and this time, the source of the problem was much more evident. There was a battle taking place. His French Canadian officer friends had run into a British patrol, and a fight had broken out.

"Damn it, I was hoping they wouldn't get caught," Canada said, and went to look for something to bandage the injury.

As soon as he bandaged the cut, Canada went through the house and began packing. However, this time he packed a lot more than just the bare essentials. His plans had been forcibly changed. Those officers were not supposed to have been found by the British.

_Depending on where he is, England's going to learn of this in a few months, or just a few days from now,_ Canada thought. _I can't risk staying here._

He knew he couldn't go anywhere in the colonies without England finding him eventually. There was only one possible destination he could think of.

France.

_I was going to need his help sooner or later,_ Canada thought. _But I guess I've got no choice at this point._

Canada tried to pack as little as possible, but a trip across the Atlantic still required more than just what he could fit into a pair of saddlebags. When he had packed what he could, he left the house, making sure everything was locked, and mounted his horse, and left Philadelphia at a gallop. The rest of his supplies could be purchased at a port town.

However, before he left for France, there was one thing he needed to do. Unfortunately, it would probably be difficult, as he had no idea where England was.

An idea occurred to Canada, however, and he made a stop at Fort West Point on his way to New York. After a brief conversation with the fort commander, Canada left a package with him, telling him it was a gift for Lord Arthur Kirkland, from his adopted brother Matthew. England was bound to receive the package eventually, likely at some point during Canada's stay in France.

Leaving West Point, Canada rode almost nonstop until he reached New York. When he arrived there, he wasted no time in going straight to the port, and getting on the first ship bound for France.

**(-)**

In the relatively quiet several days that passed after his meeting with Canada, England slowly started to wonder if his trip to the North American colonies had been an overreaction. During his stay in Boston, England never saw or heard anything that would give him cause for concern. When he left Boston, and traveled around the other colonies on other business, he never encountered any problems. Maybe things really were calming down in the colonies, and the riot merely was an isolated incident – an aberration – and there was nothing to worry about.

However, England's cautious optimism about the colonies was shattered about a month later. While conducting some business in the New Jersey colony, a courier had interrupted the meeting with a dispatch from Quebec, of all places.

England politely and apologetically cut his meeting short, and took the letter from the courier. Sitting down at the table, now alone – except for the courier – he read the letter.

"What?!" he exclaimed, standing up before even finishing the letter. "Why the hell are the French Canadian militia attacking British troops?"

"Sir, keep reading…" the courier said quietly.

England looked at the letter again. When he finished reading, he buried his face in his free hand.

"They were stealing arms and ammunition from British arsenals, and were caught by British troops," he said incredulously. He shook his head. "Why?!"

The courier shrugged. "As far as we know, their actions are totally unprovoked," he said. "We have no idea-"

England shoved the letter in his pocket.

"Whatever their reasons, they must be stopped immediately," England said. "Where are the survivors?"

The courier gave England an apologetic look, and shrugged. England cursed under his breath.

"Very well. Dismissed."

The courier left.

England stayed where he was for a few minutes longer, staring contemplatively at the wall.

"I need to go to Quebec," he muttered.

He sighed heavily, and buried his face in his hands.

_Canada, I thought you would have learned from America's mistake, _England thought._ Don't follow in his footsteps… Please… not you too…_


	6. Chapter 6

Canada couldn't decide if he regretted fleeing, or was happy for it. Early on in the voyage to France, he had fallen very ill, and the illness persisted for the rest of the journey. Much as Canada wanted to ascribe it to seasickness, he knew that wasn't the case.

Conditions in the colonies were rapidly spiraling out of control in his absence. The riot in Boston, combined with the skirmish between the Canadian militia and British regulars had pushed tensions to a breaking point. England, who had apparently stayed in the colonies, had declared martial law in both Quebec and Boston; meanwhile, in other colonies, colonists were fighting each other over whether to side with the rebels or the Crown.

On the one hand, he couldn't see or do anything about what was going on in the colonies. On the other hand, he was safe from England for the time being. He was also going to see France for the first time in nearly twenty years.

_I wonder how and when Papa learned what happened to America,_ Canada wondered idly as he lay on his bed belowdecks. _I remember he had been helping America during the war… was he _there_ when it happened?_

Canada turned over in the bed and pulled his blanket close. He would have to wait until he actually met with France in Paris to get answers to those questions.

That meeting finally came just weeks later, after a relatively smooth journey across the Atlantic Ocean. Upon landing on French soil, Canada immediately took a carriage to Paris. As he disembarked the carriage in front of the gates of France's house, France himself came outside to greet his former colony.

"Mathieu!" France exclaimed, running forward, embracing Canada and giving him a kiss on each cheek.

"Papa," Canada said, returning the greeting.

France looked Canada in the eye. His joyful expression faltered for a fraction of a second, as France briefly furrowed his brow. His smile quickly returned, but Canada did not miss France's moment of confusion.

"What is it, Papa?" Canada asked.

"I know I haven't seen you in twenty years," France replied. "But, you and I both know that, for people like us, twenty years is not very long. Yet, you seem different than I remember."

It was Canada's turn to look confused.

"How do you mean?" he asked.

"Your eyes are darker than I remember," France replied. His smile faded.

Canada said nothing, but patiently waited for France to continue.

"Oh, never mind that," France said, waving his hand dismissively. "Come inside. We'll talk there; it's much more comfortable."

Canada followed France into the mansion, and when they were inside, France led them into a beautiful and lavishly decorated salon. They sat at the table, and France sent for a tray of refreshments to be brought to them.

"How have you been?" France asked. "Are things going well?"

Canada blinked. He was sure France was being conversational, and had probably not intended to bring it up so quickly, but the problems in the colonies were actually the whole point of Canada's visit.

_Does he know that I own America's colonies now? Or does he think England took personification of them?_

"Um…" Canada began.

France had been about to take a sip of wine, but he set the glass down when he heard the tone of Canada's voice. He looked Canada in the eye again.

"Mathieu?" he asked.

"Um," Canada said again. "I'm not sure where to start…"

France frowned. "Why? What's going on?"

For a while, Canada was silent.

"There's some trouble in the colonies," he said at last.

"Oh?" France said. He paused, looking contemplatively down at his wine glass before continuing. "What kind of trouble? In which colony?"

Canada swallowed. _Well, I don't have to tell him everything right away…_

"England came to visit a while ago," he began. "But, during his stay, some fighting broke out. There was a skirmish between British redcoats and some of my French Canadian colonists. The British were saying that the colonists were smuggling weapons."

France's eyebrows went up slightly. "Is that all?" he asked.

Canada lowered his gaze, and slowly shook his head.

"England and his men are hunting down this supposed smuggling ring," he said. "But, at the same time, England has also declared martial law."

France's eyebrows went higher. "Where?" he asked. "Just in Quebec?"

"Well… no, actually…" Canada said quietly. "He did the same thing in Boston. There's been a lot of unrest there too."

France took a sip of wine, then set the glass down on the tray. He gave his former colony an apologetic look.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I didn't mean to bring that up."

"No," Canada said. "That's… actually why I'm here. I wanted to ask for your help."

France froze, and he looked worriedly at Canada.

"My help?" France said. "_Cher_, there is nothing I can do. I'm sorry."

At that, Canada lifted his gaze sharply, looking directly at France, his eyes wide. "What do you mean?"

"This is between you and Angleterre," France replied. "And I hope, for your sake, that you resolve this problem quickly and peaceably."

"What? Papa, please, there must be something you can do for me-"

"I can't," France interrupted. "I'm in too much debt from the last war, and besides, I don't think I could talk my king into helping the colonies a second time."

Canada slumped back in the chair, lowering his gaze to the floor again. _That's what I should have known would happen… this whole trip was a waste of time._

France leaned forward in his chair. As he sat there, his mind raced with conflicting thoughts.

_It hasn't turned into full-scale war yet, but the poor boy may be headed that way,_ France thought. _And as much as I want to help him, I can't. But even if I could, would it make a difference? It certainly didn't for America… _

The realization struck France like a punch in the gut. No matter what he did, it wouldn't change a thing. If this were to turn into war, Canada was just going to end up like his brother.

_All I can do is try to steer him away from that path,_ France thought. _But, even that may not work. He'd probably be fighting the influence of his own people._

"Canada, listen to me," France said.

Canada lifted his gaze slightly.

"Try to reason things out with Angleterre," France said. "Don't let this turn into another war."

Canada's reaction made France's heart plummet. Instead of quietly nodding his understanding, like he used to when given a command, Canada sat up straight in the chair, and his eyes narrowed into a glare.

"America tried to avoid war at first as well," Canada said. "For ten years, his people kept protesting and appealing to Parliament…"

France frowned. _How does he know that? When did he learn so much of America's activities before the war? I thought Canada kept to himself…_

"That doesn't mean that another war is inevitable now," France said. "This doesn't have to end the way it did for America."

Canada winced and looked away. An uncomfortable silence followed, and neither nation spoke for a minute.

"It won't," Canada said softly.

France smiled nervously, but his smile quickly faded. "You'll resolve things peacefully, then?"

Canada inclined his head slightly, but said nothing. France nodded, breathing a small sigh of relief. Hopefully, he had just talked Canada out of a very reckless – and possibly fatal – decision.

"Good," France said. He stood up and gestured for Canada to follow him. "Come. I'll have some quarters prepared for you, and you can make yourself comfortable."

**(-)**

Unaware that Canada had left to go to France, England spent several frustrating weeks searching the colonies for him. First, England went to Quebec, thinking that Canada had been directly involved with the men that had been smuggling the weapons. Not only was Canada not there, but the French Canadian militia had mysteriously disappeared, and all efforts to find them had been fruitless.

England abandoned Quebec, leaving the search to his men. He returned to the Massachusetts Bay colony and conducted a search there. Once again, he found nothing. Frustrated, England continued to head south. As he was passing through the New York colony, he received a message from General Arnold, who had command of a small company of men at Fort West Point.

Apparently, Matthew Williams had left a gift for England.

"What is going on here?" England mused aloud as he read Arnold's letter. "Why couldn't Canada have given it to me himself? And where the hell _is_ he, anyway?"

It didn't make any sense, but perhaps when he got a look at this supposed gift, his questions would be answered. England headed for West Point.

When he arrived, he immediately went to meet General Arnold in his quarters. The two men exchanged greetings, then each took a seat at the desk. Arnold reached under the desk and retrieved a package, handing it to England.

"Your brother's gift for you," Arnold said.

"Thank you."

England inspected the box briefly before opening it. He untied the string holding the box shut and removed the lid, setting the string and the lid on the desk. Then he reached into the box and pulled out its contents.

The contents turned out to be just a bright red British uniform, neatly folded, but it had been turned inside out. When England unfolded it, he found two pieces of torn paper inside.

"Why…?" he said, staring in confusion at the uniform. _Why send me one of my own uniforms? And why is it inside out?_

He set the uniform aside and looked at the papers. It took less than a second for him to recognize what the paper was. His hands balled into fists, and he suddenly felt sick.

"Sir?" Arnold asked, leaning forward in his chair as if trying to get a look at the paper.

England stood up abruptly, turning slightly so that Arnold couldn't see his face while he fought back tears.

"It's nothing," England lied. He shoved the torn paper into his pocket, tucked the coat under his arm and headed for the door. "Thank you, General, for holding Matthew's gift for me."

England left, and closed the door behind him. He mounted his horse, stuffed the coat into the saddlebag and headed for the gates. When he was finally out of the fort, he only rode for a short distance before stopping again and promptly dismounting. Leading the horse on foot, England went off the road and headed into the forest, eventually stopping in a small clearing.

The small wooden cross that was America's grave stood a few feet away. England tied his horse's reins to a tree, then approached the grave. He came to a halt just barely three paces away from it, reached into his pocket and withdrew Canada's torn contract. Tears streamed down his face, and he looked up at the sky.

"Is it not enough that I lost America?" he cried. "Must I lose Canada as well?"

England knelt in front of the grave and lowered his gaze. He held out the two pieces of the contract, placing the pieces close to each other, so that they lined up where it was torn. As it turned out, the tear was straight down the middle, cutting both England and Canada's signatures in half.

After staring in silence at the contract for a long while, England dropped the papers, looking straight ahead at America's name carved into the horizontal piece of the cross.

"Does Canada truly think he can pick up where you left off?" England said to the grave. "To succeed where you failed?"

He hung his head and stared at the ground, taking a moment to wipe the tears from his face before he continued.

"No… that won't happen; there's no way these colonies could handle another war…" England sobbed. "I'll be standing here, five years from now, in front of both of you."

He buried his face in his hands, shaking and crying uncontrollably.

**(-)**

Canada spent several days adjusting to his quarters. Sometimes he would accompany France on business in the city, but for the most part, he kept to himself. One day, however, France took Canada with him to the French Royal Court.

France introduced Canada to King Louis XVI, as well as a number of the French nobles. However, after France went to have a discussion with his king, leaving Canada alone, Canada began to wander the court. Presently, Canada bumped into an elderly man with glasses.

"Oh! Excuse me, sir, I am so sorry," Canada said, taking a step backward and checking to see if the man was alright.

"No no, I'm fine," the man said. He locked gazes with Canada for a second, and his eyes went wide.

"What is it?" Canada asked.

"Alfred?!" the man whispered. He took a second to look Canada over, looking both shocked and overjoyed. "You're alive?!"

Canada shook his head sadly. _When will people stop mistaking me for him? He's been dead for four years now…_

"I'm not Alfred," he said. "I'm his brother, Matthew."

The man's smile vanished, and he looked apologetic.

"I'm sorry, Matthew," he said. "But you look exactly like him. For a moment there, I thought…"

He looked away and shook his head.

"Never mind," he said. "It's impossible; I should not have even entertained the thought… forgive me."

"It's all right," Canada said weakly. "This isn't the first time, um…"

There was an awkward pause.

_This man knew Alfred personally. He's got to be either John Adams or Benjamin Franklin, since they're the only two that came here._

"What is your name, sir?" Canada asked.

"Benjamin Franklin," the man said, extending his hand for a handshake. "Your brother was a good friend of mine."

Canada shook Franklin's hand, and Franklin began walking, leading Canada to another part of the room.

"What is your name, Matthew?" Franklin asked as they walked.

Canada frowned, confused. "Matthew Williams," he replied.

"No, that's not what I meant," Franklin said. "What is your real name?"

_My name as a personification?_ Canada wondered. _So he knows what Alfred and I are?_

"Canada…" he said, somewhat hesitantly.

Franklin nodded thoughtfully.

"Then who is America?" he asked.

"I thought you said-"

"I know," Franklin cut Canada off. He came to a halt nearby the wall, and Canada stopped right next to him.

"Alfred _was_ America," Franklin continued. "But if what France told me is true, then Alfred is dead. Yet his colonies still remain. So, who is standing for them?"

"Me," Canada said. "England gave me America's colonies right after the war ended."

Franklin nodded thoughtfully again.

"And now that things have calmed down, I suppose England sent you here on a business venture? Or is your mission more… diplomatic in nature?"

"England didn't send me here at all," Canada said. "He doesn't even know I'm here."

Franklin's eyebrows went up for only a fraction of a second. For some reason, he didn't seem all that surprised at Canada's behavior.

"I need France's help," Canada said pleadingly. "But, he said there was nothing he could do. You were an ambassador for America during the war; can you convince France to help me?"

Franklin's face fell. "What for?" he asked. "You haven't started another revolution, have you?"

"It hasn't turned into one yet," Canada said. "But there's unrest everywhere; it can't be very far off."

"Hmmm."

Franklin stroked his chin as if deep in thought.

"It will take time," Franklin said. "And John and I can't do it ourselves. We have to prove to the French crown that the colonies are worth backing in another war. That responsibility falls on your shoulders, I'm afraid."

Canada nodded.

**(-)**

England left West Point, but not before disposing of Canada's 'gift'. The uniform was useless, and if Canada cared so little about his contract as the personification of British North America that he was willing to destroy the document it was written on, then the paper was useless as well.

That was no gift. It was an insult, and as such, England had no intention of keeping the items regardless.

_So, he destroys his contract and sends it to me,_ England thought. _Maybe that's why I can't find him. He's hiding from me._

England mounted his horse and continued his search of the colonies, maintaining contact with British soldiers and Loyalist colonists whenever possible. He was determined to find Canada and those rebellious militia.

While he didn't find Canada, he did eventually find some of the elusive French Canadian rebels. However, they turned up in a rather unlikely location.

A few miles outside of Philadelphia, England ran into a small company of British troops, and they appeared to have arrested a man. England went over to investigate, identifying himself to the commander as Lord General Kirkland. The commander immediately explained everything.

"This man was found stealing arms from out of the arsenal," the commander said. "He's a French Canadian, and apparently doesn't speak English. I've got no idea why a French Canadian would be all the way down in New Jersey, especially to steal weapons of all things."

The Canadian man swore at England and the commander in French. England rolled his eyes, and returned his attention to the commander.

"He's part of a ring of French Canadian rebels," England said. "They're trying to stir up rebellion in the colonies. And, apparently, not just in Quebec…"

The commander gave England a quizzical look. "Why?"

England sighed and shrugged. _Canada has to have a personal hand in this. Why else would the French Canadians care about what's going on in the rest of the colonies?_

"It doesn't matter," England said. "But this man is clearly a traitor to the British crown. He'll be punished accordingly."

Without warning, several gunshots rang out, and the commander was hit in the chest. He cried out in pain, clutching his chest as he fell into the grass. A small handful of his men were also hit, including the two men that had been restraining the Canadian. The Canadian immediately took advantage of his opportunity, seizing the musket of one of the fallen soldiers and going on the attack.

Cursing under his breath, England picked up the commander's musket and went after the Canadian. He blocked the Canadian's attempt to bayonet him, then pressed an attack of his own. A scant two seconds later, the man was impaled on the end of the bayonet of England's borrowed musket.

England yanked the weapon out of the Canadian rebel's chest, and the man collapsed onto the ground. He did not get back up. Meanwhile, England and the remaining British soldiers frantically tried to find whoever had fired on them earlier.

A second round of gunfire rang out, and more British soldiers fell. This time, however, England saw where the gunfire had originated from. There were some woods nearby; the attackers were using the cover of the trees to catch the British in a surprise attack.

"They're hiding in the woods!" England yelled. He pointed. "Attack!"

England led the charge himself, and it did not take long to find their attackers. Unfortunately, the British soldiers were at a huge disadvantage, but England was no longer in a position to care. He charged, impaling any rebel unfortunate enough to be near him.

During the fighting, a stray shot struck England in the left arm. Swearing colorfully, but determined to keep fighting, England forced himself to maintain his grip on the musket and ignore the injury as best he could. However, the fight did not last for much longer after that.

The rebels quickly scattered and fled in all directions. England and his men tried to pursue, but the rebels outran them, eventually disappearing into the underbrush.

"Damn it," England gasped, finally dropping the musket and tending to his injured arm. He tore off the end of his sleeve, tying it around the wound.

He and the men went back to the road, tending to the wounded. England knelt by the commander, quickly realizing the man was dead. England swore again.

"Get back to Philadelphia," England commanded the men. "I will send for reinforcements."

_And so begins yet another revolution… how long will it last, until I have to stand before Canada's grave as well?_

* * *

**Author's Note: The General Arnold that's at West Point... yes, it's _that_ one.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Author's Note: Thank you guys for bearing with me. I now have a lot more room in my schedule, so hopefully updates should speed up at least a little bit...(also, the fighting should begin in earnest by the next chapter.)**

**Eh, and I've been neglecting to put a disclaimer here, but I think we know: Hetalia does not belong to me.**

* * *

It was a long and infuriating wait for the reinforcements at Philadelphia. Sending the survivors of the skirmish to be treated by local doctors, England then locked himself in the Pennsylvania State House and paced irritably back and forth in the hall. That exercise did not last for long, however, and England retreated into the Assembly Room and sat down at one of the tables, staring at the floor.

The reinforcements arrived that night. England was about to turn in for the night, and when he had left the State House, on his way to America's old house, he saw his troops marching in his direction.

"About bloody time," England muttered. He went over to join his men.

The commander noticed England's approach, and called a halt. He and England exchanged greetings, and then the commander dismissed his men. While the soldiers turned in for the night, England and the commander kept walking.

"The rebels fled as soon as we went into the forest to engage them," England said.

The commander looked disgusted. "Cowards," he said. "They knew they didn't stand a chance in a real fight. Where are they now?"

"I don't know," England replied. "It's only been a few hours, but who knows how far they've managed to flee in that time…"

"How are we supposed to catch them then?"

"Spies. Their movements shouldn't be hard to track, especially if they plan to keep stealing from British arsenals."

"They'll be expecting to be followed, and they know there are plenty of colonists still loyal to the Crown, who would happily turn them in if given the chance," the commander protested. "Wouldn't the rebels be doing everything they could to hide their movements?"

"They can try, but we won't lose them easily," England countered. "I've increased military presence here, and I will offer rewards to any colonists who aid us in the capture of these rebels. They _will_ be caught."

"Very well. But you said they fled. I doubt they'll be staying in Philadelphia."

England nodded. "I don't anticipate staying here for long either. However, we wait on the word of my spies."

**(-)**

Canada returned to the French court the next day. It did not take long for him to locate Benjamin Franklin, and the two enjoyed a brief and pleasant conversation for a while. Several minutes into their conversation, another man from the court approached them, and Franklin waved at the man, prompting Canada to turn around to see who it was.

He didn't recognize the individual, but he had a guess as to who he was. His guess turned out to be correct, as Franklin called the man by name.

"Good day, Mr. Adams," Franklin said.

"Doctor Franklin," John Adams responded cordially. He glanced over at Canada.

Adams' eyes briefly flashed with the same surprise and joy that Franklin had shown yesterday when seeing Canada for the first time. Canada sighed, steeling himself to be mistaken for America yet again.

Adams did not speak, but he looked questioningly at Franklin, who gave Adams a subtle – almost imperceptible – shake of the head. Adams then returned his attention to Canada.

"What is your name, sir?" Adams asked.

"Matthew Williams," Canada replied.

"Alfred's brother," Franklin added. "He's here on a diplomatic mission to France."

Adams nodded, though his eyebrows went up slightly. "I assume Sir Kirkland is… elsewhere at the moment? Dealing with Mr. Bonnefoy, perhaps…"

Canada shook his head. "I came here alone," he said.

"Really?" Adams looked taken aback. "I'm surprised Sir Kirkland would let you conduct official business overseas on your own; I thought-"

Canada shook his head again. "He doesn't know I'm here," he said.

Adams stared at Canada in stunned silence for several seconds.

"That's a dangerous move, Mr. Williams," Adams said once he regained his composure. "Do you know what Sir Kirkland is going to do to you when he finds out?"

"He was going to punish me anyway," Canada said quietly, dropping his gaze to the floor.

"What for?"

"There is rebellion in the colonies… again. I'll bet Arthur's already got the military together, trying to stamp out the rebellion right now."

Adams ran a hand through his hair. "Dear God," he muttered.

There was a moment's silence before Adams continued.

"You're here to petition France for help?" he asked. "I'm sorry, but I just don't know if that's possible."

Canada's face fell. _This man was one of Alfred's outspoken supporters of independence, and he managed to talk France into helping the American cause, but now he sounds so despondent, like we've been defeated already… _

He cast a furtive glance over at Franklin.

_France sounded much like Adams does now as well… Does Franklin believe the same? _

"Remember what I told you earlier, Matthew," Franklin said. "It will be up to you and the rebels to convince the French. Prove to them that the colonies will not fail a second time."

Adams rounded on Franklin.

"You're all but asking him to defeat England singlehanded!" he protested.

Franklin shook his head. "No, I am not," he said. "I know we can't defeat the British on our own."

"But unless I can get France to help me, I will be on my own!" Canada said, the tone of his voice edging on panic.

"No, you won't," Franklin said calmly. "You've got something Alfred never had; the resources of every British colony on the North American continent."

Canada was about to protest, but stopped himself. Franklin had a point. Perhaps, because he had possession of _all_ of the colonies, there were things he could do that America couldn't. He just needed to be creative and resourceful with what he had.

_Will it really mean that I'd stand a chance, though?_ Canada thought.

It was little consolation, but it was better than none at all, he supposed.

"What should I do?" Canada asked. "Return to the colonies and fight while you two talk to France?"

Franklin nodded. "That would be the most prudent course of action for the moment."

Adams sighed and folded his arms, still looking reluctant.

"Be _careful_," he said. "Don't try to confront Arthur directly."

"I know. And thank you."

With that, Canada turned and left. Adams and Franklin exchanged looks.

"Is he planning on leaving immediately?" Adams asked incredulously.

"Probably not," Franklin said. "However, that boy _is_ America's brother, Canada. Formerly a French colony, before the Seven Years' War. He hasn't seen France in decades, so I imagine he wants to spend a little more time with his former guardian before heading off to war with his current one."

Both men fell silent for a while. Eventually, Franklin broke the silence, and changed the subject.

"America said that Canada was his brother, but I didn't realize they were identical twins," he observed.

Adams looked quizzically at his colleague. "Why is that important?"

Franklin shrugged. "It isn't, really," he said. "I was just making an observation. But, when we saw him, we both thought he was America, even though we should have known better. It makes me wonder if anyone else…"

"Has mistaken him for Alfred? No. There is no one else left," Adams said bitterly. He abruptly left, headed in the same direction Canada had gone.

**(-)**

As Franklin had guessed, Canada remained in France for several more weeks before returning to the colonies. However, just days before Canada was about to leave, France called his former colony into a private meeting. The two met at France's house, sitting down in the parlor for the meeting.

Canada had just barely sat down when the door opened again, and in walked a young man in military attire. Canada abruptly stood up, looking quizzically back and forth between France and the new arrival.

"Mathieu, this is the Marquis de La Fayette," France said. "He served as a general for the American rebels."

"Bonjour, Marquis_,_" Canada greeted the young general. "My name is Matthew Williams."

Canada and Lafayette exchanged their greetings, but when they were done, Canada was still confused. He looked to France again.

"He has agreed to serve the colonies again," France said.

Canada's eyes went wide for a moment. He quickly returned to a neutral expression, though he fought the smile that tugged at his lips. Maybe France was going to help after all.

"I –um, thank you, Marquis," Canada said. "I would be honored…"

"It is my honor as well, Monsieur Williams," Lafayette said. "I have heard many good things about you from Monsieur Bonnefoy."

Canada nodded, stealing a glance over at France out of the corner of his eye. _I wonder what changed his mind?_

Now that introductions were out of the way, the three men spent some time in pleasant conversation. France had some wine brought in while they talked. Canada relaxed in his chair and allowed France and Lafayette do most of the talking. During the entire conversation, Canada's mind kept wandering to other things, and he found it difficult to focus and participate in the conversation.

_If Lafayette was a general for the Continental Army during the war, then he probably met America at least once,_ Canada thought.

Even if Lafayette knew France well, that didn't necessarily mean that he knew what America was. For all Canada knew, Lafayette might have already forgotten Alfred's name.

_That's not important, though,_ Canada reminded himself. _I just hope his skills as a general help me survive this war…_

Canada set his wine glass down. He faked a smile in reaction to a comment France made, barely paying any attention to what was actually being said.

_Would England really kill me, if it came to that? There'd be no one left to take the colonies if he did…_

Canada shook his head. _No, England could probably take them himself. They are technically _his_ colonies._

"Mathieu?" France said, jolting Canada out of his reverie.

Canada looked at France. "What?"

"You're shaking your head. You don't agree?"

_Agree with what?_

"Um," Canada said awkwardly. "I-uh, well…"

He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Taking a sip of wine to stall for time, Canada tried to think quickly.

"I'm sorry," he said finally. "I didn't quite catch what you said earlier."

France did not respond right away, but he regarded Canada with a thoughtful expression. Canada tried to force himself to keep a neutral expression, and he hoped that whatever he missed was unimportant.

"Ah, I thought you looked a little distracted," France said. He waved his hand dismissively. "Don't worry about it. I was just commenting on one of the lovely young ladies in the court…"

_Good, it's not important._ Canada visibly relaxed. He took another sip of wine, and tried harder to focus on the conversation this time. If his concentration lapsed again, there was a possibility he would miss something that was actually important.

Fortunately, the conversation remained on light and inane topics until Lafayette finally left. As soon as Lafayette was gone, however, France adopted a much more somber expression, and, after downing the last of his wine, began to speak.

"_Mon cher,_ you should know something," he said.

Canada frowned. "What?" he asked.

"My king was reluctant to help America at first," France began. "He did not believe the colonists stood a chance. England was – and still is – the world's most powerful empire. He has a well-trained, well-disciplined military, the largest navy, and owns most of North America. A successful rebellion from the empire looked impossible; America was outmatched in every conceivable way."

"What changed his mind?" Canada asked.

France heaved a sigh. "I still sent aid to America in secret. However, after the Battle of Saratoga in 1777, my king was finally convinced of America's commitment to his independence, and believed that victory was possible. He finally approved financial and military assistance, I could finally declare open alliance with America."

France stopped and lowered his gaze.

"But, for all our effort, Louis' initial prediction was eventually proven right. America lost the war. Now, between my debt and the colonies' legacy of defeat, I know I will never be able to talk him into aiding the colonies again."

"But you're giving me Lafayette-" Canada objected.

France shook his head. "That's as much as I can do," he said. "And, even that much I did without my boss' knowledge."

"Oh."

There was a pause.

"The first time I asked, you said there was nothing you could do. You told me to settle things peacefully with England…" Canada said.

"Yes, but I was recently informed of the state of affairs in the colonies," France said, his countenance darkening further. "I don't know how or why you've let it come so far, but it sounds like war is inevitable. You will need Lafayette's talents before long."

_Franklin must've told him,_ Canada thought.

France looked his former colony in the eye. Canada froze, returning the gaze.

"What?" Canada asked.

"Regardless of the outcome of the war, you must come back alive," France said gravely. "I'm your big brother – you do not have my permission to die."

Canada nodded, despite the forlorn expression on his face. With that, he stood up and headed for the door. France accompanied him into the foyer, where Canada picked up his coat and put it back on.

The door was open, but Canada hesitated to leave. He turned around and put his arms around France, and France returned the embrace.

"Thank you, France," Canada said.

He let go of France, and this time, he actually stepped over the threshold and onto the porch. Seconds later, as Canada was making his way to the street, France closed the door.

_France is wrong; war isn't inevitable – it's already started. Lafayette and I need to leave immediately._

* * *

**Ending notes: The Treaty of Amity (the treaty where France declared an alliance with the United States) was signed in February 1778, several months after the Battle of Saratoga (October 1777). However, France had already been sending aid in secret since 1776.**


	8. Chapter 8

It wasn't sickness that wracked Canada's body on the return journey from France, though he might have preferred that over what he now experienced. Civil war had broken out in the colonies, and the effects were written all over Canada's body, in the form of wounds and bruises that kept appearing seemingly out of nowhere. He knew England and his troops were involved, but for the most part, the colonists weren't fighting the British.

They were fighting each other.

The same rebellious spirit that had been rampant in America's colonies during the last war had finally been reignited. Unfortunately, this had only resulted in rebel colonists clashing with other colonists still loyal to the king.

_This is not what I wanted,_ Canada thought as he wrapped bandaging around his most recent wound, which had appeared on his left leg. _We're supposed to be rebelling from the British Empire, not tearing ourselves apart!_

Canada finished binding the wound, and he leaned back against the wall of his quarters belowdecks. Taking a deep breath, he tried to force himself to calm down.

_Didn't America also have this problem? His people were divided between Patriots and Loyalists… but he managed…_

Canada flinched when a painful reminder struck him in the middle of his thought.

_Up until the Battle of West Point, anyway,_ he realized.

"What happened?" Canada asked aloud, even though there was no one else in the room to answer. "The battle was a failed attempt to recapture West Point… but how did he lose that fort in the first place?"

Canada searched his memory. Surely at some point he'd heard from someone about what had happened before that fateful battle.

It had been a strategic fort on the Hudson River, and had been held by the Americans for most of the war, until it fell to a British surprise attack. The fort was surrendered almost immediately, as Canada recalled from what people had told him.

_I think Samuel Adams said that the fort's commander, Benedict Arnold, defected to the British side as well,_ Canada thought.

Another realization suddenly occurred to him, and it made him feel sick. General Arnold was still in command of West Point – England had apparently given the post to him after the war ended – and it was General Arnold that Canada had left his 'gift' with before leaving for France.

_I didn't even realize who that was when I left the package with him. If I had known, I would not have left it with that traitor…_

Then again, it was unlikely that Arnold had seen the contents of the package. The man had no idea who Matthew Williams was, other than what Canada had told him: the brother of Sir Arthur Kirkland, and Arnold did at least know Sir Kirkland to be a British general. Arnold should have enough respect for his superior officer to ensure that Sir Kirkland received his brother's gift.

In the end, Canada knew it made little difference. Pushing those thoughts aside, he lay down on his bed, attempting to go to sleep.

**(-)**

Canada had originally planned to go to Boston, but as the ship neared the harbor, it turned out that the Boston Harbor was closed. When they were still several miles offshore, Canada's ship was intercepted by a British frigate which had been blockading the harbor. The captain of Canada's ship was forced to change course, so instead of going to Boston, Canada went to New York. After several days' delay from changing course, Canada finally set foot in his colonies after being away for nearly a year.

He stepped off the ship and onto the dock in New York Harbor on a frigid January morning. Walking quickly in an attempt to keep himself warm, Canada left the harbor and headed directly to America's old house. He let himself inside, went straight to the bedroom, dropped his belongings onto the floor, and collapsed on the bed, where he slept for several hours.

When Canada awoke, he still did not bother to unpack his belongings. They remained forgotten on the bedroom floor while Canada ventured into the kitchen to find something to make for dinner. He cooked a small meal for himself, then sat down in the dining room to eat. When he finished eating, he returned to the bedroom.

Finally, he began to unpack. Canada unpacked his changes of clothes, taking them over to the wardrobe and dresser to put them away.

When he opened the wardrobe doors, however, he noticed it was still full of America's clothes. Heaving a sigh, Canada began taking America's clothes out of the wardrobe. As he did this, he saw what looked like a long piece of metal had been hidden behind the clothes. Out of curiosity, Canada reached for it, and pulled it out to look at it.

It turned out to be a rifle. For several minutes, Canada just stood there, as if unsure of what to do with the weapon. It was not loaded, but a second look in the wardrobe revealed ammunition and a horn of gunpowder in one of the drawers.

_America kept a gun hidden in his wardrobe,_ he thought. _I wonder if he's got more weapons hidden in his other houses…_

Setting the gun aside, Canada returned to his original task. He put his clothes in the wardrobe alongside America's old clothes, then looked at the pile of America's clothes that still lay on the floor. With Canada's clothes in it, the wardrobe was now full; the rest of America's clothes would have to be put elsewhere.

_I don't want to throw them away… They're still in decent condition, and they look like they'd fit me…_

Canada settled for folding the clothes as neatly as he could and leaving them on top of the dresser. With that done, Canada then decided to turn in for the night.

Exhausted though he was, Canada still did not get adequate sleep that night. While his still-healing wounds did not bother him, he nevertheless slept lightly, and kept waking up at the slightest noise. Finally, when the first rays of sunlight started to show through the window, Canada gave up, and got out of bed.

While he got dressed, Canada glanced over at the rifle, which he had left leaning against the wall, beside the dresser.

_I'll probably be needing that before long,_ he thought.

Canada hurriedly pulled his coat on and went over to the rifle. He picked it up, then went to retrieve the ammunition and gunpowder from the wardrobe drawer, putting them into his satchel. He then carried the satchel and gun with him as he went outside into the snow.

As he was on his way to the stable to find a horse, Canada mentally scanned the colonies for any places that seemed likely to have open conflict. Tension was still high in Boston, but the city was closed off, still under martial law. The surrounding areas remained open, although there were plenty of angry colonists there, too. Virginia, Georgia and the Carolinas were fairly quiet, although that was probably because of the lack of British military presence there.

And yet, the British troops weren't Canada's main concern. His own people were.

_I need to find my militias, and start putting together a proper army. Then I need to contact Lafayette…_

Immediately after finding a horse, Canada mounted up and rode out of New York, and went looking for those French Canadian militiamen. They probably had quite the stockpile of stolen weapons by now, but those weapons would need to be distributed quickly if Canada was going to stand a chance in this war.

His search stretched over the course of several days. One day, while on his way through the Pennsylvania colony, Canada stopped in a small town to rest. He took his horse to the stable, where it could rest, then Canada headed to the tavern.

He took the opportunity to make conversation with some of the people in the tavern, making discreet inquiries about rebel and British military activities in the area. Unfortunately, he got very little in the way of useful information. Apparently, there had been a skirmish outside Philadelphia several months ago, but no one had seen or heard from the rebels since.

_They're probably headed to a different colony,_ Canada thought. _They may even have reached their destination already. But where did they go…?_

There was no way of knowing that for certain until Canada heard or saw news about another skirmish. He had left instructions with the militia commander to contact 'Matthew Williams' if necessary, but that was before Canada had suddenly decided to go to France. At this point, however, that made little difference. Canada would eventually find the militia on his own.

Canada left the tavern, returning to the stable to find his horse. On his way to the stable, he ran into a small child.

The child appeared to be a boy of barely eight years. He ran into the street right in front of Canada, and Canada had to stop abruptly to avoid the boy. The boy stopped as well and looked up at Canada. Neither one spoke for several seconds.

The boy narrowed his eyes at Canada, as if glaring accusingly at him. Then, he ran off without uttering a single word.

"Wait!" Canada called, staring in confusion after the boy.

The boy ignored him, but disappeared around the corner of a building.

_What was that about?_

**(-)**

A few more days into his search, Canada made another stop, this time in Virginia. He had been riding for several hours, and he stopped on the side of the road to take a short break. While he was stopped, he noticed a company of British soldiers headed in his direction.

Canada cut his break short. He quickly mounted his horse, and made ready to leave.

"You there!" the commander called out to him.

Canada froze. For a split second, he thought of ignoring the commander and fleeing, but he knew that would only cause trouble. Better to humor these soldiers; that way, there was still a possibility of getting out of this without incident.

"Yes?" Canada said.

The commander brought his men to a halt roughly twenty paces away from Canada and his horse. Leaving his men where they were, the commander then approached Canada. He gestured for Canada to dismount.

Canada dismounted, though he tried to hide his reluctance in doing so. He gave the British commander a quizzical look. The commander, on the other hand, was eyeing the rifle Canada had with him.

"What is your name, sir?" the commander asked.

"Matthew Williams," Canada replied.

"Mr. Williams," the commander said. "Do you know anything of the rebel militia that have been going through this area lately?"

_They are in this area? Good, I might be able to find them soon._

Canada shook his head.

"I'm sorry," he lied. "But I'm afraid I haven't seen or heard anything about them. All I know is that they've been going through the colonies, smuggling weapons and the like."

"Indeed, they have been smuggling weapons," the commander said, nodding his head, but not sounding like he believed Canada's words. "Including those like the kind you've got on you. Where'd you get that rifle, Mr. Williams?"

Canada fought to keep his face neutral, and his voice calm.

"This was my brother's," he said.

The commander's eyebrows went up. "Your brother gave it to you?" he asked. "And where did _he_ get the rifle? He's not affiliated with the rebels, is he?"

Canada's reply was cut off by the sound of gunfire. The commander spun around just as some of the British soldiers cried out in pain and fell. The rest of the soldiers immediately readied their muskets, and began looking around for the source of the gunshots. It didn't take long for them to find their attackers; the rebel militia had appeared further down the road from them.

The commander hurriedly returned to his men and began shouting orders, completely ignoring Canada. Canada seized his opportunity and mounted his horse, then rode in a wide circle around the fray, joining the rebels at the rear of their ranks.

"There you are," a vaguely familiar voice called out.

Canada glanced all around him, looking for the man who had just spoken. When he finally found him, he did a double take, having not recognized him immediately.

Alexander Hamilton approached Canada and saluted.

"I've been looking for you for months," Hamilton said. He glanced over at the battle taking place ahead of them. "But that discussion can wait. We could use your help."

Canada nodded and hurriedly dismounted. He loaded the rifle as he headed to the front line, and took aim at the British soldiers. Hamilton had a rifle of his own, and he also took aim.

"If there's anything I learned while I served with Washington in the last war," Hamilton said before firing. "It's that we don't stand a chance in a proper, 'fair', fight."

"What does that mean?" Canada asked.

Hamilton fired, striking one of the British officers in the chest. "Do what is necessary to win. Aim for their officers; it sows confusion and damages their morale."

Canada nodded, and readjusted his aim. With his gun now trained on the commander, he pulled the trigger. The commander was hit in the shoulder, and he fell. Canada was about to reload, but Hamilton grabbed his arm.

The British soldiers were charging towards the militia, bayonets mounted on their muskets.

"Pull back!" Hamilton yelled.

He and the men promptly fled, leaving Canada with little choice but to follow. Canada jumped back into the saddle and rode alongside the men while they fled on foot. Fortunately, the militia proved faster on their feet than the British soldiers, and the British gave up trying to catch them after only a few minutes.

Hamilton waited a while after the British stopped pursuing to allow the men to halt. When they did, many of them sat down in the grass to rest and relax for a few minutes, knowing that they would be on the move again very shortly. Canada dismounted and sat beside Hamilton.

"I learned of a group of French Canadian rebels that were causing problems for the British," Hamilton said. "In the last few months, militias from other colonies have slowly been forming up again. This hasn't happened in five years."

"And…?" Canada said, pretending to not know what Hamilton was hinting at.

"I knew the rebellion wasn't over," Hamilton said.

Canada gave a halfhearted smile.

"You know that we're at an enormous disadvantage?" he asked.

Hamilton sighed. "Yes," he admitted. "It may take a miracle of divine providence to win this war."

"But you still think it can be done?"

There was a pause.

"Yes," Hamilton said finally.

* * *

**Ending notes: Not every American colonist living in the American Revolution wanted independence. In fact, after the war ended, roughly one twentieth of the people actually left the country, going to the British colonies in Canada just so they could stay loyal to the Crown.**

**Now, in this story, being an alternate history, there's rebellion in the Canadian colonies as well. This means that the Loyalists have even fewer options now...**


	9. Chapter 9

Even with the help of his spies, England had difficulty keeping up with the rebels. Every time England received a report of the rebels being found somewhere, they would disappear by the time England's redcoats got there.

Just when his patience was starting to run out, he received word that one of the rebels had been caught at the Virginia border. He had papers on him that indicated the rebels were headed to Virginia next. England immediately packed up and headed for the Virginia colony on the fastest horse he could find.

He arrived in Virginia in early January. Much to his disappointment, however, he had missed the rebels once again.

Instead, he found what was left of a company of British regulars in Richmond. They had just had a skirmish with the rebels a couple of days ago.

The rebels were becoming much more brazen in their attacks, England quickly found out. When he talked to the men, he learned that the rebels had deliberately aimed for the officers, then fled before the British could make a counterattack. In the one volley they had managed to fire, only three rebels were killed, but there had been more than a dozen British casualties.

"Our commander was questioning a young man on the road when the bastards showed up," one of the soldiers told England. "The fellow was armed, riding on horseback. Rode around and joined the rebels as soon as the fighting broke out."

"Really?" England said thoughtfully. "It sounds like he may be a rebel spy. Do you remember what he looked like?"

The soldier furrowed his brow as he tried to recall the man's face.

"I was too far away to get a good look," he said apologetically. "But he was wearing a brown overcoat, and he had a rifle. He had long, blond hair, kept most of it tied back."

England's face fell. _That's too vague,_ he thought.

"Anything else you remember about him?" he asked.

"I'm sorry, sir," the soldier replied. "But I never got close enough to see much else other than that."

England nodded and left the soldier alone. He tried talking to some of the other men, but got the same answers as before.

_The only person that would have been able to give me a detailed description of the rebel spy was killed in the fighting,_ England realized with annoyance. _Well, at least as long as my own spies keep tracking their movements, I'll catch him and the rest eventually._

With that in mind, England then went on his way, continuing to correspond with spies as well as local colonists, trying to find where the rebels had gone.

Several days later, England's search took him northward again. As he neared the Virginia border, he stopped in a small town. He went to an inn to rest for the night, but when he got to his room, he had difficulty falling asleep. At almost midnight, he gave up, got out of bed, and began pacing irritably back and forth.

_Where the bloody hell is Canada?_ He thought. _If I could just find him and talk some sense into him… we need to stop this rebellion before it tears his colonies apart…_

England stopped in front of the window, staring blankly out at the street for a while.

_I wonder if he's been hiding with those rebels. It would explain why I can't find him anywhere._

England slammed a fist on the window sill. If that was where Canada was hiding, that only made it even more imperative that those rebels be captured, and quickly.

_They should still be in the area, at least,_ England told himself. _Tomorrow, I need to join my men and find them._

With that, England returned to bed, although he didn't get much sleep for the rest of the night.

The next morning, however, England held himself to his word and led his men on a search for the rebels.

**(-)**

Canada followed Hamilton and his company of militia to an encampment several miles away from Richmond. They only stayed there for a few days to rest and tend to their wounds, and then Hamilton gave orders to break camp and move.

They began heading north, and Canada rode alongside Hamilton as the men marched.

"Most of these men are veterans from the last war," Hamilton explained to Canada. "Your French Canadian friends are still in the northern colonies, with the stolen weapons. As soon as we can get enough forces assembled, we can start organizing and supplying a real army."

Canada raised an eyebrow. "My… friends…?" he asked. _How does he know I was the one in charge?_

"The captain told me his orders were from a man named Matthew Williams," Hamilton replied. "I recognized the name. Matthew Williams is Alfred's brother's name. Your name."

"Oh…"

There was a pause.

"Are you still in contact with the Canadian rebels?" Canada asked.

Hamilton nodded. "Communication is slow and difficult, especially now that the British have got their eyes and ears everywhere," he said. "Damn near impossible now to send a simple request without our couriers being arrested."

"What are the Canadian rebels doing?"

"For the most part, making sure our guns, powder, and shot are kept out of the hands of the British," Hamilton replied. "Though I think they're trying to recruit more men as well. Shouldn't be too difficult… up where they are in the northern colonies. It's the southern colonies that will be the problem…"

"What do you mean?"

Hamilton swore under his breath, then suddenly called a halt. Canada looked frantically around, trying to see what had made Hamilton stop.

British regulars, accompanied by what appeared to be a company of local militia, were headed straight for Hamilton's men.

"That's the problem," Hamilton said with disgust. He began shouting orders to the men, and the men prepared for another fight.

Canada grabbed his rifle and aimed. Remembering Hamilton's advice to aim for the officers, he immediately scanned the field, looking for whoever looked to be of higher rank on the enemy side. As soon as he found an officer, he took careful aim, and fired.

The enemy militia were armed with rifles, and stayed back while the redcoats prepared a bayonet charge. Canada quickly realized that Hamilton's men were outmatched. Hamilton noticed this as well, and frantically began leading a retreat.

Canada put the rifle away. Before he could turn his horse around, however, someone shot Canada's horse out from under him. Both he and the horse fell to the ground, and Canada scrambled to get back on his feet, but by the time he got back on his feet, the redcoats were nearly upon him. In his panic, Canada abandoned his horse and gear, and fled.

In just a few minutes, the battle was over. Hamilton, Canada, and the rebel militia had all disappeared into the underbrush.

England walked around on the area where the rebels had been positioned just minutes earlier, cursing under his breath. These rebels were too fast. Just when he'd finally found them, they escaped again. They hadn't even captured any alive as prisoners, and the battle had been so short, there were almost no casualties on either side.

For the second time in a week, the rebels had merely held the British to a draw.

_Well, a draw is better than a loss,_ England told himself. _But I've still failed; Canada's probably escaped again…_

"Hey!"

England turned sharply at the sound of a child's voice calling him. He saw a small boy headed in his direction, and he appeared to be carrying something.

_Why is there a child here on the battlefield?!_

The child drew closer, and England's eyes went wide in alarm. That something was a rifle. The child stopped several paces away from England and held the weapon up.

"One of the rebels left this," the boy said.

"Thank you…" England said hesitantly, taking the rifle from the boy. With the rifle in his hands, he looked it over, and he froze when he saw the name 'A.F. Jones' on the weapon's grip.

_This is America's! _

One of England's officers noticed the boy as well, and came running over.

"Young man, what are you doing here?! Shouldn't you be at home with your parents?" the officer called out incredulously.

The boy turned slowly to face the officer. He regarded the man with a cold expression that made England flinch internally at the sight.

_Who is this boy?_ England wondered. _There's something very odd about him… that is not normal child behavior…_

"Where are your parents?" England asked the boy.

The boy turned to face England and briefly flashed a faint smile. Without a warning, he ran forward and hugged England around the leg.

_What the hell?!_

"Get off of him!" the officer said indignantly, stepping forward and grabbing the boy.

Both England and the officer were in for a shock. Instead of easily pulling the boy away from England, the officer found he had to pull much harder as the boy tightened his grip on England's leg. Annoyed, England then tried to help the officer, but that's when the boy did something even more shocking than anything he'd done so far. He let go of England's leg, but only to punch England's officer in the gut. The man was knocked off his feet and left panting for breath, as the blow had knocked the wind out of him.

England immediately put his arms around the boy, expecting to have to use his powerful nation strength to restrain him. To his surprise, the boy relaxed instead.

"What is your name?" England demanded.

The boy looked blank. "I don't know…" he said quietly.

"Why are you out here?" England asked. "Where is your home?"

The officer rose gingerly to his feet, glaring at England and the boy.

"What are you doing?" he asked England. "That brat is-"

"Shut up," England said dismissively. "Return to the men and take them back to Richmond. I'll be there later."

Nonplussed, the officer nevertheless did as he was told, leaving England and the boy on the field.

"Where is your home?" England repeated.

"The colonies…" the boy said.

England was about to ask where specifically, but bit his lip to stop himself.

_He acts unusually mature for a child, is much too strong for a normal child, and doesn't know his own name,_ England thought. _Something's not right here. _

England glanced down at the rifle, which now lay in the dirt beside him. Dozens of questions raced through his mind, including questions that he had had years ago, but never had adequately answered; questions which had been almost completely forgotten.

Perhaps now was as good a time as any to dust off his old spellbooks and do the investigating which he should have done years ago.

* * *

**Ending Notes: Yes, that is the same boy Canada ran into in the previous chapter, in case anyone was curious.**


	10. Chapter 10

**Author's Note: Not much interesting stuff happens in this chapter, I'm afraid. Just England and Canada trying to figure out who the boy is. **

**However, I promise more fight scenes very soon. Real fights, not those tiny skirmishes they've been having...**

* * *

England picked up America's rifle, staring at it for a long while before moving. The whole time he stood there, the boy looked up at England expectantly.

"Show me where you found this," England said at last.

The boy immediately waved England to follow him, and ran over to the spot. He stopped next to Canada's dead horse and pointed at it.

"It was right next to this horse," the boy said. He suddenly frowned, confused. "Why?"

England nodded, eyeing the saddlebags and equipment. Curiosity overtook him, and he knelt down and removed the gear from the horse's back. Once he held the saddlebags in his hands, England opened them up and began rummaging through the contents.

"This rifle belongs to the rebel leader," England explained as he searched through Canada's equipment. "He may have important items in here…"

So far, he was finding nothing useful; just ammunition, powder, travel rations, and a change of clothes. The boy came up and stood right next to England, eyeing the rifle.

"Who is A.F. Jones?" the boy asked. "Is that the rebel leader's name?"

England put Canada's equipment down.

"No," he said. "He – never mind…"

_What _is _this boy?_ England wondered. _I don't think he's a normal human child, but if he's a personification, what does he represent? _

"Come with me," England said, grabbing the rifle, but leaving the saddlebags.

The boy quickly followed. England walked along at a fairly fast pace, but the boy didn't appear to be having any problems keeping up. Occasionally, the boy would even run ahead of England for a few paces, then slow up and allow England to overtake him again. England watched the boy, fighting the mixed feelings in his head.

_He's not Alfred somehow brought back to life, is he?_

England quickly dismissed that possibility. This boy didn't look enough like Alfred; his eyes were much too dark of a blue, and he lacked that distinctive lock of hair that always stood up. Nor did it make any sense for Alfred to have reverted to childhood, and lost all of his memories.

_If he is a personification, but he's not Alfred, then he would have to have been born within the last five years,_ England thought. _But I gave all of America's colonies to Canada right after the war ended… Did Canada try something? Does he even know about this boy?_

Suddenly, memories of the end of the war came back with a vengeance. The spellbook he'd found at Camden had disappeared after a meeting with Canada shortly after the end of the war. He knew Canada had to have been the thief, but the young colony had vehemently denied stealing the book. And England never did find it.

England massaged his temple. Had Canada tried to resurrect America, and accidentally created this boy instead? That might explain some things, now that England thought about it.

He recalled seeing what had looked like another America at the battle of West Point. This America lookalike had vanished right before England's eyes, along with England's older self. Then, looking further back in his memory, when he'd first encountered his future self at the Battle of Camden, England also remembered his future self had tried to insist that he had traveled to the past by accident.

_He also refused to tell me how the war would end; that I wasn't supposed to know the outcome before it happened._

England stopped in his tracks. His older self _knew_ that America would die, but still had refused to say anything.

_He was there when it happened, too,_ he realized. _He saw me fire the shot…_

The boy noticed England had stopped, and he stopped as well, giving England a quizzical look. England paid no attention, however.

_Does this mean that in the future, I travel back in time, _knowing _that I'm going to watch America die? _Knowing_ that I'm the one who kills him… Why? Why did I do nothing to stop myself? _

"Hey…" the boy said quietly.

England looked at the boy, just barely managing to keep the tears out of his eyes.

_So does this boy become the America lookalike that disappeared with my future self? I never got a good enough look at the man, my future self wouldn't let me…_

"Are you all right?" the boy asked.

"I'm fine," England lied. "Come."

"Where are we going?"

"Richmond."

With that, England resumed walking.

_That spellbook Canada stole belonged to my older self, so it stands to reason that I still have my own version of it. I just need to find it…_

England walked faster, maintaining a fast pace all the way to Richmond.

**(-)**

Hamilton continued to move the militia west for several days after the skirmish. Eventually, he, Canada and the men reached the weed-choked fields of an abandoned plantation in the Virginia countryside. Canada went ahead with a couple of scouts to scope out the buildings, and when they found them to be safe and empty, Hamilton went ahead and allowed the men to rest in the abandoned mansion.

The mansion had been stripped bare, with long scrapes on the floor as evidence of furniture and other heavy objects having been hastily dragged out at some point. Most of the doors to the various rooms were either missing or lying on the floor with the hinges broken.

Canada and Hamilton sat on the floor of what was once the foyer, while the men retired to the other rooms.

"What happened here?" Canada wondered aloud.

Hamilton shot Canada a surprised look.

"After the war, King George ordered the execution of every man who had signed the Declaration of Independence," Hamilton said. "Their families were forced out of their homes. All of their property was confiscated, then sold at auction."

"Oh." _I wonder whose plantation this was…_

It got quiet for a moment.

"How come no one has bought the plantation since then?" Canada asked.

Hamilton shrugged. "I have no idea, but as long as it's vacant, we can use it to our advantage," he said.

Canada nodded. "But how long are you planning on staying here?" he asked. "Shouldn't we return to the northern colonies and start putting an army together-"

"Those French Canadian militiamen are under _your_ command," Hamilton pointed out. "You don't need to stay here. You could return to the northern colonies and start organizing the army right now."

"What about your men?" Canada asked. "Will they join the army as well?"

"Eventually, yes."

The conversation ended there, as Hamilton started pulling travel rations from his pack, and Canada got up and wandered around the mansion.

_I don't think I'm going to get America's rifle back,_ Canada thought. _I left it on the battlefield with everything else… no doubt those redcoats took it after we fled…_

He didn't dare return to the northern colonies unarmed. Unfortunately, Hamilton's men didn't have any guns to spare. A visit to the nearest arsenal was in order. Later that afternoon, Canada left the mansion and began making his way back to Richmond.

**(-)**

Upon returning to the British camp in Richmond, England brought the boy to his tent, keeping the boy in his sight while he searched through his things for his spellbooks. He leaned his musket and America's rifle against the tent wall, then made the boy sit on the bed. England then began thoroughly searching through everything.

"What are you looking for?" the boy asked.

"Just some old books," England said.

England finished emptying out a box full of supplies, and when he didn't find any spellbooks, he haphazardly threw the contents back in and set the box aside. While England reached for another box, the boy got up off the bed. Being too preoccupied with his search, England did not notice the boy discreetly slip out of the tent.

_I probably left my spellbooks in London,_ England thought as the second box turned out to not have anything either. He stuffed the contents back into the box.

As he got up to search the rest of the tent, England glanced over at the bed. He promptly cursed under his breath; the boy was gone. Abandoning the search for the spellbooks for now, England stormed out of the tent in search of the boy.

Unfortunately, the boy was nowhere to be found. England spent an hour searching the camp by himself, and when he couldn't find the boy, he started interrogating the men.

"Corporal! Have you seen a young boy anywhere in the camp?"

The soldier looked blank for a fraction of a second, but then his face suddenly lit up.

"I did, actually," he said. He pointed towards the camp entrance. "I saw him leave the camp nearly an hour ago."

England glared at the corporal.

"And you let him wander off on his own?" he asked.

"But he wasn't alone, sir," the corporal protested. "He was following some of the men. I thought they were escorting him somewhere."

England sighed and massaged his temple. _I highly doubt that… God, my men can be such idiots at times._

"Fine. Never mind, corporal."

The corporal left, returning to his tent.

_If he's a personification, he should be able to take care of himself,_ England tried to reassure himself. _But, damn it, why did he run off like that, without saying anything?_

Heaving a sigh of exasperation, England decided to not worry about the boy, but continue to look for his books. He went back to his tent and resumed his search, but never found what he was looking for.

"They're in London," England muttered. He raked his hands through his hair and glared at the tent wall.

_I need to go back and get them,_ he thought. _I'll have to worry about that boy later. And my generals can handle this war while I'm away…_

**(-)**

The last thing Canada needed was another confrontation with the British. So, he stayed off the roads entirely on his way to Richmond; instead, he cut his way through woods and across plains.

He found himself enjoying the solitude. Out here, in the countryside, where distant plantation fields were the only visible signs of human civilization, it almost didn't feel like there was a war going on. As Canada walked, he slowly realized that he was also starting to feel better physically. Maybe this cross-country walk was having a therapeutic effect; Canada hadn't felt this good in a long time.

Unfortunately, as he neared Richmond, he knew that the feeling wouldn't last.

Canada finally entered Richmond on a particularly chilly January evening, and he immediately went to look for buildings that might be storing weapons. He wandered around the town, feigning only casual interest in the buildings around him.

He rounded a corner, and noticed a handful of British soldiers on patrol. They were headed in Canada's direction. Taking a leisurely pace, Canada feigned interest in the sign hanging above the door of a nearby shop, all the while watching the soldiers out of the corner of his eye.

The soldiers marched right past Canada without taking a second glance at him. With the soldiers now in front of him, Canada began following them, making sure he maintained a safe distance, and not making it obvious that he was tailing them.

"What are you doing here?"

Canada jumped. The voice sounded like an angry whisper, and Canada had no idea where it had come from. He glanced all around, trying to find the owner of the voice.

It turned out to be a young boy, of probably no more than eight years old, and he had been standing several feet directly behind Canada. Canada relaxed, but cast a confused look at the boy. He looked into the boy's cobalt blue eyes, and nearly flinched at the anger he saw in them. Yet anger wasn't the only thing he saw. There was also sorrow and pain. And it all seemed to be directed at Canada for some reason.

_Who is this? I know I've never met him, but he seems familiar,_ Canada thought.

"You're the rebel leader, aren't you?" the boy asked accusingly.

Canada blinked. "What?"

"You're the one behind the rebellion, aren't you?" the boy asked again. "It's all your fault, isn't it?"

Canada frowned. This conversation had started off strange, and quickly went to absurd.

_What would a child know about the rebellion? Who _is _he, anyway?_

"What are you talking about?" Canada asked.

The boy narrowed his eyes at Canada.

"Go away," the boy said coldly. "Take your rebels, and leave me alone."

_My rebels?_ Canada wondered. _Does he know what I am? No, that's absurd; he's only a child… unless…_

Canada's eyes went wide. This couldn't be an ordinary human child, he suddenly realized. One hand flew to his side, to the spot where one of his bruises had appeared as a result of the civil war in his colonies. He felt nothing. The bruise was gone.

_Oh, God…. Is it possible…?_

Canada looked back at the boy. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible.

"America?"

The boy looked momentarily confused.

"What did you call me?"

For once, the boy's tone was not angry or accusatory. In fact, he sounded more curious than anything else.

Canada swallowed hard. "I was asking," he said. "Is that your name?"

The boy still looked blank, and it took him a minute to answer.

"No," he said, although his tone was less than convincing. "Now get out."

He took a step forward. The confused look was gone, replaced by the anger from earlier. Canada knew he wouldn't be able to get any more out of the boy; the conversation was over. He walked away, and he could almost feel the boy's glare on him until he finally turned a corner. When he stole a glance around the corner just a few seconds later, the boy was gone.

Canada sighed. He looked around, realizing with annoyance that, while he had been distracted with the boy, the British soldiers Canada had been following were gone. Yet, that was hardly important now. It seemed Canada had a much bigger problem to deal with than the British.

_That boy can't be America, can he?_ Canada thought. _But how would that be possible? England made me the personification of all of British North America; I thought that meant I stood for both Canada and America… so what does that make the boy?_

* * *

**Ending Notes: England's reasoning may make sense from his point of view, but he's still totally wrong. He won't realize this for a while...**

**I can't say any more without giving away massive spoilers.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Author's Note: Sorry this one took so long. I've lost count of how many times I scrapped and rewrote it...**

**I'm afraid the actual battle will have to be in the next chapter. That scene is going to be pretty lengthy, and this chapter was getting long enough as it was...**

* * *

England left Richmond immediately, heading east to catch the next ship bound for London. Meanwhile, Canada headed north to rendezvous with the French Canadian militia.

Much to Canada's relief, his journey back to New Jersey was free of incident. There was no sign of that mysterious boy anywhere, and whenever Canada saw any British troops, he made sure to avoid them.

He eventually found his militia in what appeared to be an abandoned farmhouse. It had been converted into an arsenal, but the weapons were very cleverly hidden, as Canada learned when the captain showed him around. As impressed as Canada was with how well everything had been hidden, he nevertheless grew very worried as he surveyed his militia's handiwork.

"Is this all we have?" Canada asked. "There's barely enough here to supply even one regiment…"

"That's all that's in this farmhouse," the captain replied. "But we've got more hidden throughout the northern colonies. As soon as volunteers start coming, we can arm them."

"How many more arsenals are there? And where are they?"

There are several hidden in places like this stretching from here to Montreal," the captain said.

Canada frowned. "Are there any in the South?"

"You'd have to ask Commander Hamilton. He's been trying to organize the militia down there, but I don't know how well that's been going."

Canada sighed, but nodded his understanding. The South was going to be a problem, he just knew it.

_I know the demographics and sentiments of every region now, and the South has… wait…_

"Sir?" the captain asked.

Canada wasn't paying attention. He just now realized he had a more urgent problem.

_Why can't I feel the southern colonies anymore?_

Fighting back the initial sense of panic, Canada turned his attention inward, searching and feeling around his consciousness, trying to find what happened to four of his colonies. He tried listening for the voices of the people of Virginia, both Carolinas, and Georgia, but it was to no avail. They had mysteriously fallen silent, almost as if they were no longer there.

But four colonies couldn't have just simply disappeared. Yet, as personification of British North America, Canada seemed to have somehow lost touch with those four colonies. But if those colonies still existed, but Canada could no longer hear them, that left only one other explanation.

_Have I lost the South? But why, and how? I never tried to give my colonies to anyone, and I know England can't have taken them… so who did?_

The answer presented itself almost immediately. Canada remembered that boy from Richmond. Suddenly, the boy's strange behavior made more sense.

_That boy represents the southern colonies now? But how did he manage to take them from me? I represent all of British North America, and neither England nor I have given my colonies to anyone…_

"General Williams!"

Canada jolted back to reality, staring wide-eyed at the captain.

"Yes?" Canada asked.

"You looked… unwell. Are you alright?"

"I'm fine," Canada said. "I was just thinking."

The captain nodded. Canada started walking around the farmhouse, inspecting the place a second time.

"Start organizing the men. I need an army ready to march by the end of the month," Canada said.

"Yes sir."

**(-)**

England's voyage back to London seemed to take an agonizingly long time. When he finally set foot on the docks in his own country, he immediately headed straight for his London home. He unlocked the door, let himself inside, and went straight to the basement, to the shelves in the back, where the spellbooks were stored.

England went to the shelves and began removing books one by one. One of these spellbooks had to be his own version of the book that his older self had dropped at Camden all those years ago.

He took a handful of the books, and sat down while he searched. The search took quite a while, as England had to keep flipping pages through each book, looking for the spells he remembered seeing in his older self's book.

_He said that he used a teleportation spell, and a time travel spell. One of these should have both spells in it._

It took over an hour of searching, but England eventually found the right book.

_Here it is. This is the book my older self had,_ England thought. _The book that Canada stole after the war ended._

England reopened the book to the first page, and looked through it a second time. When he got to the last page, he shut the book and set it on the floor.

_Canada can't have tried to resurrect America; there are no spells like that in there,_ England thought as he stared at the now closed spellbook. _He probably tried the time travel spell; if he couldn't bring America back to life, then the only other option would be to go back in time and prevent his death…_

England reached for the book, opening it once more. He stared long and hard at the time travel spell.

_Well, he clearly failed. Nothing has changed._

Leaving the open spellbook on the floor, England took a minute to put the rest of the spellbooks away. Then, he sat back down on the cold stone floor and stared at the book. After a minute, he picked it back up and headed to the center of the room. Now was time he tried to answer some questions – questions that had been plaguing him for years.

England began preparing the time travel spell.

While he made the necessary preparations, several potential problems presented themselves in his mind. He had very little information to go on as far as his older self was concerned. For one, he didn't know just how far in the future this other England had come from. To further complicate the dilemma, England had no idea where his older self had gone. Someone had grabbed him – quite literally out of thin air – and then vanished. Was he taken back to his proper time? Who was that mysterious individual that took him, anyway?

Taking in a deep breath, England forced those questions out of his head. Worrying about it would only distract him. Now, he needed to focus.

England stood in the center of his newly drawn incantation circle and held the spellbook aloft. There were ways of modifying the spell so he could figure out where in time he should look, but the spell was dangerously complicated already, and modifications only increased the probability of error.

Yet, it was not impossible. But if he was to successfully find his older self, England would need to put superhuman focus and effort into the magic.

Fortunately, nations – especially those with magical talent like England – possessed such ability.

He did not begin casting right away, but rather stood absolutely still for a moment, clearing his mind until there was nothing left but him and the spell on the page in front of him. Then, very slowly and deliberately, he began the incantation.

As the incantation circle lit up, everything else in the room seemed to fade. Eventually, the only thing England could see was the book in his hand and the glowing circle at his feet. However, he was concentrating so intently on the spell that he took no notice.

During his chant, England thought he felt an odd jolt. His concentration broke for a fraction of a second, but he quickly caught himself and kept going with the incantation, knowing he didn't have the time to risk so much as guessing what had caused the disruption. Fortunately, though, the disruption did not cause him to mess up the spell.

With the first part of his spell complete, England paused in his incantation for a second while he turned pages in the spellbook. He began chanting again.

Now came what would probably be the hardest part; the spot where he was most likely to slip in his concentration and lose the entire spell. England had to focus on two things at once now: the daunting task of trying to direct the spell to find his older self, while simultaneously staying focused on the words of the incantation. Closing his eyes, and mentally steeling himself, England kept going.

_Given the strange clothes that my older self was wearing when I first saw him, he must have come from the fairly distant future,_ England thought. _But, how far…?_

He tried guessing an approximate time period – he could narrow it down later – and finished his second incantation. He opened his eyes.

The scene before him looked very much like London, but there were definite changes. However, there were still a few too many similarities. None of the people he could see were wearing anything like what his older self had.

_Fifty years must not be far enough,_ England thought. _Maybe a hundred…?_

England began chanting a third time. When he finished, he saw London again. Again, things were definitely different, but something still didn't seem right. England tried looking even further ahead.

On this try, he finally started to see people wearing clothes that closely resembled the kind that his older self had been wearing. Now, England decided, he needed to actually find his older self. He turned some more pages in his spellbook and cast one last spell. The image of twentieth century London faded, but was quickly replaced with a new one.

He now saw the interior of what looked like someone's bedroom, but the bed was the only indicator he had to go on; most of the other objects in the room looked foreign to him. Something large, black, flat and metallic hung on the wall directly opposite the bed, and a strangely-shaped black object with red numbers on it stood on the bureau beside the bed.

Ignoring the strange surroundings, England looked at the people he saw in the room. His older self stood next to the bed, holding open the exact same spellbook that England was holding. Canada sat on the bed, staring quietly at the floor, and someone else sat on a chair with wheels at the end of its one leg. This person had his back to England, so he couldn't tell who it was. All he could see was that this man had blond hair, and he, Canada, and the older England were all dressed in strange clothes, similar to those that England's older self had been wearing back at Camden.

_When is this? Is this after my older self has traveled back to 1780?_

England's older self glared at his spellbook and began muttering things under his breath. England edged closer to try and make out what his other self was saying. At the same time, Canada suddenly spoke up.

"It's been over a week," Canada said. "Nobody has seen any changes, have they?"

England frowned. _Changes to what?_

The older England kept muttering at his book as if he hadn't heard anything Canada said. The man at the desk did respond, however.

"None," he said. There was a pause, then he added, "I think Norway was right."

England's heart skipped a beat. He knew that voice. He hadn't heard it in nearly five years, but he still remembered that voice. Yet, he found himself shaking his head. It was impossible…

Canada shot a furtive glance at the older England, then to the man at the desk.

"That's good, right?" Canada said hesitantly.

The man at the desk slammed his hands flat on the desk and pivoted the chair until he faced Canada and England. He then took his hands off the desk and stood up. England nearly dropped his spellbook in his shock.

_America?! Can it really be…? _England thought._ But that's impossible! He's dead! _

The room started to get blurry. The spell had a limited duration as it was, but England's concentration was lapsing, and as a result, the spell was weakening faster. England quickly returned his entire attention to the spell, trying to maintain it for just a little bit longer. While he was focused on the spell, the conversation between his older self, Canada, and the apparently resurrected America continued.

"What?" Canada asked. "If Norway's right, then that means we won't be affected. You'll be fine."

"Not quite," England's older self said quickly, before America could respond to his brother's comment. "The anomaly originated in the other timeline."

The room returned to normal. Having restored the spell, England then tried listening in again.

Canada and America were both giving the older England quizzical looks. The older England sighed, and set his book down.

"That anomaly was a damaged and incomplete temporal portal," the older England began. "Like I said before, I think someone tried to travel back to the American Revolution, and failed."

_Anomaly?_

"Who did? And why?" Canada asked.

"My younger self had the spellbook, but Romania said it was in the younger Canada's possession when he found it," the older England said. He threw his arms in the air, then promptly let them fall to his sides again. "It had to be one of them."

_Canada!_ England thought. _It had to be him! But, I don't understand… if Canada's attempt failed, then why is America here?_

His thinking distracted him from the spell again, and the room went blurry once more. Cursing under his breath, England looked back to his spellbook. He began chanting, but it did little good. The spell was too weak; all England could do at this point was to terminate it, before it collapsed and possibly damaged the timeline.

Reluctantly, England ended his chant and closed the spellbook. The image vanished, and he was returned to the year 1785, in the cellar of his London home. He stepped out of the incantation circle, set the book aside, and stared long and hard at the wall.

Although he never doubted it before, England was now absolutely certain that Canada had stolen the spellbook, and had tried to use it to bring America back. He had clearly failed, yet, despite that, America was alive. On the one hand, England was overjoyed at seeing his former colony alive again, but on the other hand, it made no sense.

Shaking his head, still trying in vain to make sense of what he had just seen, England abandoned the spellbook, and went upstairs.

**(-)**

Canada spent much of the next several weeks trying to devise strategies. He maintained constant contact with his officers, and toward the end of the month, met personally with Lafayette in New Brunswick.

Together, Canada and Lafayette trained Canada's new army, despite the freezing conditions in New Brunswick in February. And, although Canada's original plan was to be on the move by March, it was clear the men weren't ready yet. Canada and his army stayed put for two more months.

In late April, the weather got warmer, and the men completed their training. Canada ordered the men to march.

The entire Hudson River was currently under British control. If Canada wanted to win this war, he needed to take control of that river away from the British, and quickly. Over the past several months, Canada had spent a lot of time looking at maps, gathering intelligence on the British, and drawing strategies. He knew he was at a disadvantage, but he fully intended to take that river back.

And he knew just where to strike first: West Point.

Possibly the most strategic spot on the whole river, it had been the place where the American rebellion had been lost five years ago. And the traitor responsible for that loss was still there, in command of the fort.

Unbidden, painful memories resurfaced in Canada's mind during the march.

"_He held too strongly to the ideals of his cause. Now, that cause is gone…"_

"_What do you mean? Are you saying that he…?"_

"_He's dead…"_

"…_How? When?"_

"_He was killed in the failed attempt to reclaim West Point. I'm sorry."_

Canada's hands clenched into fists.

_England may have been the one who fired the shot, but I can't help but wonder if Arnold is the real reason America died,_ he thought.

He tried to force himself to relax, but only had marginal success. Thankfully, Lafayette called a halt to the march, and the men began to set up camp. It was getting late, and although they were very close to the fort now, they still wanted to remain hidden in the woods, just a few miles away, where they wouldn't be discovered by the British.

Canada set up his tent and ate a small dinner consisting of travel rations. He then wandered around camp for a while, checking on the men. Hours later, after the sun had set, and the men were asleep, Canada quietly slipped away from camp.

He had left Lafayette with very specific instructions. Now it was time for Canada to carry out his part of the plan.

On the way, however, Canada stopped in a familiar clearing. Though it was hard to see this late at night, Canada nevertheless paused for a moment at America's grave.

"Alfred," Canada said. A weak smile played at his lips. "I'm going to take West Point back. That bastard traitor Arnold is still in there, but not for long. I'll personally see to it that he's finally hanged for what he did to you."

Canada then stood there silently for a moment before resuming his journey to West Point.


	12. Chapter 12

**Author's Note: I wanted to include more segments, one with England and the other with France, bu**t **this chapter is ridiculously long already, and I'm behind schedule as it is. They'll have to wait until next chapter.**

* * *

Staying hidden in the underbrush, Canada made his way around the gates of the fort. The gates were locked and guarded, and so Canada knew better than to try to get in that way. Instead, his best bet was to find an unguarded section of wall and climb.

Finding that clear section of wall proved easy, but scaling it without being caught would be much more difficult. Canada spent a harrowing several minutes climbing, his heart racing with fear and panic at every little noise he made, praying feverishly that none of what he was doing would alert the soldiers on watch.

Finally, Canada set his feet on the ground of the interior of the fort. He walked as quickly as he could without making noise, and kept to the shadows as much as possible. As he walked, he kept glancing around, keeping an eye on any soldiers nearby.

Canada reached the officer's quarters undetected. After checking that the door was unlocked, Canada slowly eased the door open and let himself inside. He quickly closed the door again, then immediately set to his first task: stealing a uniform.

The first one Canada saw was draped over the back of a chair next to one of the beds. Canada reached for the coat, but kept his eye on the sleeping officers. They all appeared to be sound asleep. A few of them were even snoring, and the sound covered what little noise Canada made as he threw on his stolen uniform.

Now disguised as a British officer, Canada quietly left the officers' quarters, and strode confidently across the grounds of the fort. He made his way to the storage area, where all the powder and ammunition was kept. A brief check of the door showed it to be locked.

Canada nodded thoughtfully to himself. _Where is the key, then?_

He looked around, and saw only a pair of soldiers standing a few dozen yards away, near the fortifications, right next to one of the cannons. Both of them were looking out at the fields and trees beyond, totally unaware of Canada's presence. However, these soldiers were probably just on the night watch. It was doubtful that they would have the key to the armory. Canada left in search of the key.

_One of the officers probably has it,_ Canada thought.

He returned to the officer's quarters and quietly snuck inside. He checked everywhere; the floor, the men's uniforms, the desks and shelves. Canada eventually found a key ring with several keys on it in the pockets of one of the uniforms. Quickly putting the key ring in his own pocket, Canada hurriedly left the officers' quarters for the second time.

When he returned to the armory, Canada had to spend several minutes experimenting with the keys to figure out which key unlocked the door. Once he found the right key, he went into the armory and stole one musket, along with just enough powder and shot to supply only himself.

With the musket slung over his shoulder, and everything else safe in his satchel, Canada immediately locked the door again. He took a few steps back from the door, and looked up at the walls of the fort, taking note of the British flag flying nearby one of the towers. On closer inspection, Canada saw there was a soldier patrolling that section of wall.

_I need to get him out of the way,_ Canada thought.

He approached the wall, stepping lightly up the stairs so as not to alert the soldier to his presence. Canada waited in the shadows just a few steps down from the landing, and when the soldier started to walk away from the stairs, Canada rapidly strode up the last few steps and struck the soldier on the back of the head with the butt of his stolen musket. As the soldier fell, Canada caught him with one arm and lowered him gently to the ground.

With the guard taken care of, Canada promptly went to the next task. He slung the musket onto his back and went over to the flagpole, and began lowering the flag. Then, he removed the flag and the rope from the pole. He set the flag aside, but kept the rope. Before heading back down the stairs, Canada stripped the unconscious soldier of his weapon and uniform. Now carrying two muskets, a rope, and an extra uniform, Canada walked along the top of the wall, scanning the ground outside the fort as he went.

A lone figure was running towards the fort, but they kept to the shadows of the trees as much as possible. Canada might have even missed the person if he hadn't been specifically looking for him.

_That was fast,_ Canada thought. _He must have already been waiting right outside the fort._

Canada threw one end of the rope over the wall. The individual outside quickly noticed it, for he ran straight for it. He grabbed onto the end of the rope, and Canada hoisted him up the wall. As soon as the man's feet touched the ground on top of the wall, Canada put the rope down and handed the new arrival the musket and uniform he had stolen from the British guard.

"Go to the western gate and wait for the next signal," Canada said, reaching into his satchel, where he found the key ring he'd used earlier. He handed that over as well.

The Canadian militiaman was about to take the keys when he happened to glance to his right. Another British soldier was on the wall, a couple dozen yards away, running in the opposite direction.

Canada swore under his breath.

"Never mind; send the signal yourself," he whispered. "I'll take care of this."

Canada left the man to his task and sprinted after the British soldier.

He had almost caught up to the man when he started shouting.

"Attack! We're under attack!"

Canada leapt forward, tackling the soldier to the ground and seizing him by the throat, cutting off his cries. It was too late, however. Someone had undoubtedly heard his warning shouts, and was probably raising the alarm in the rest of the fort. Within minutes, the fort was going to be swarming with British soldiers.

Canada got up on his knees, and with one hand still over the soldier's throat, turned the man onto his back. The soldier struggled fiercely to free himself from Canada's grip, but the more he struggled, the more Canada tightened his grip. Eventually, the color began to drain from the soldier's face, and his movements slowed down, and finally stopped completely. Canada released the now motionless soldier and stood up.

"Damn it," he muttered. _We've been discovered. I've failed._

He went over to the stairs that his enemy had initially been headed for, and headed down. Another British soldier ran to meet Canada at the bottom of the stairs.

"Sir!" the soldier said. "What's going on? Someone said we're under attack!"

Canada sighed heavily. A surreptitious glance around the grounds didn't show anyone else up, except for this one man in front of him. The alarm hadn't been raised yet. Maybe, just maybe, the situation was still salvageable.

_I'll need to change plans, but at least I won't make this a total loss. Hopefully._

"That was me," he lied. "But I was mistaken; it was a false alarm. Tell the men to go back to bed."

"…Yes sir."

The soldier looked skeptical, but the rank on Canada's stolen uniform far outranked his own, leaving him with little choice but to obey. He returned to his quarters.

As soon as the soldier was out of sight, Canada went right back up the stairs and walked briskly back to the flagpole, where his militiaman was still waiting. He had now changed into the uniform Canada gave him.

"Did you send the signal?" Canada asked.

"Yes."

Canada nodded. "Good. Wait for me at the armory."

The militiaman shot Canada a confused look. "Sir, your orders were-"

"The plan has changed," Canada interrupted. "Go!"

Canada and the soldier took off in opposite directions. While the soldier went to the armory, Canada headed for the west gate.

Out of the corner of his eye, Canada saw someone headed in his direction, coming from the general's quarters. The person waved at Canada, and Canada had to stop and turn. He narrowed his eyes, the lack of light making it hard to tell who this person was. However, as the man came closer, and finally spoke, his voice made Canada's blood run cold.

"You there!"

Canada had only heard Benedict Arnold's voice once before, but one time was enough to know that this voice was definitely the same one. And in the few seconds that passed as Canada stood rooted to the spot, Arnold came close enough that, even with the poor lighting, Canada could see his face.

"Yes, sir?" Canada said, in as placid a tone as he could manage.

"What is going on out here?" Arnold asked. "I've been hearing men saying we're under attack, but now one of them just came back and said it was a false alarm! What happened?"

Canada exhaled sharply, disguising his anger as mild frustration and confusion.

"One of the men _thought_ they saw something, and prematurely raised the alarm," Canada replied. "There doesn't appear to be a problem, but I was just on my way to investigate, just in case…"

"I see." Arnold nodded thoughtfully. "Take some men with you. As valuable as this fort's position is, I wouldn't be surprised if those rebels are planning an attack."

"Yes sir."

With that, Arnold left Canada alone, and began giving orders to the other men still outside. He sent a couple dozen to follow Canada, but the rest stayed on guard on the walls. Arnold then headed to the barracks, presumably to send more soldiers to guard the walls.

Canada bit his lip. He waved for the soldiers that Arnold had given him to follow him, and he ordered the west gate to be opened. Walking at a fast pace, he led the British soldiers out of the fort.

_I need to work fast,_ Canada told himself. _Fortunately, Arnold has unwittingly helped me out, sending me these men…_

"This way," Canada said. "And keep a sharp eye out. There may be rebels hiding in the grass and trees."

Canada led them off the dirt path, and into the nearby trees. He broke into a run, and the men raced to keep up. However, Canada managed to get far enough ahead to disappear behind a tree. He waved in the direction that the soldiers would soon be coming, and frantically whispered out orders in French.

The British soldiers caught up to Canada just in time for Canada's trap to be sprung. French Canadian rebels emerged from their hiding places in the trees and bushes, catching the British completely off guard. The fight that ensued was brief, and within minutes, most of Canada's men were changing into stolen British uniforms, while the rest tied up the unconscious British soldiers.

"We need to get to the fort. Quickly!" Canada said, even as he started heading in that direction.

The small group of rebels, now dressed as British soldiers, followed Canada back to West Point. The gate opened, and they went inside, but now the fort was bustling with activity. From snippets of what he heard the men saying, Canada quickly realized that the soldier he'd strangled and then left on the wall had been found, and now the fort was on full alert.

"Go to the armory," Canada told his men. "I've already got someone over there. He'll let you in."

His men took off into the crowd of soldiers. Canada himself stayed where he was for a little longer, stealing a glance at the flagpole. The flag had been put back on the pole, and three soldiers now stood next to it. Unfortunately, Canada needed that area in order to send the next signal. Yet, that wasn't his main concern at the moment.

_Where did Arnold go?_

Canada went to the general's headquarters, but the door was locked. He was about to head for the barracks when he saw Arnold heading in his direction.

Arnold looked visibly disturbed at seeing Canada back so early.

"What did you find, Major?" Arnold asked.

"Nothing, I'm afraid," Canada said, pretending to sound apologetic.

Arnold shook his head. Canada shot him a genuinely puzzled look.

"One of my men has just been found dead on the wall," Arnold said. "And his clothes have been stolen. There's either a traitor in our midst, or the rebels have infiltrated the fort."

_Oh, there's a traitor here all right… _Canada thought.

"Either way, it looks like the rebels are planning to attack West Point very soon," Arnold continued. He glared at Canada. "Find them, and kill them, _before_ that happens."

Canada nodded, and he and Arnold went in different directions.

_Damn it, we've lost the element of surprise. If I have Lafayette attack now, while Arnold's got the men on alert, we might lose. But if I wait, my men and I will get found out… and I may never get another chance at this fort. But I _need _it, if I want to win this war…_

Canada hung his head. It was a very dangerous gamble, with small chance of victory. And, regardless of the outcome, there were bound to be massive casualties.

_I'm going to have to send the signal now. It's my only chance._

Canada returned to the wall, climbed the stairs, and approached the three men standing by the flagpole.

"Lower the flag," Canada commanded the men.

All three of them gave Canada incredulous looks.

"What in hell for?" one of them asked.

"That was an order," Canada said, his tone soft yet threatening. "Do you want to be court-martialed for insubordination?"

The soldier's eyes went wide with fear.

"No, sir!"

"Then lower it."

The three men did as Canada ordered, but they still had somewhat skeptical looks in their eyes. When the flag was all the way down, they looked back at Canada.

"When do we put it back up?" they asked.

"When I tell you to do so."

The men exchanged glances. Canada stood there in silence for a minute, staring out at the fields and forest beyond the fort. After a while, Canada gave up, and descended the stairs again. He never did give the order to put the flag back.

Keeping an eye out to make sure he didn't run into Arnold again, Canada went to the north gate, ordering more of Arnold's men to accompany him as he did so. He took these men with him on another ostensible search for rebels, but this time, he led them far away from West Point, and took care to be well ahead of them before disappearing again. Hiding in the underbrush, Canada removed his stolen red coat and left it on the ground, then got up and headed back to West Point.

As he neared the fort, Canada could hear gunfire. Lafayette had gotten Canada's signal, and his army had arrived while Canada had been busy sending more of Arnold's men away from the fort. And with the armory locked, and the keys gone, the rest of Arnold's men were going to have a hard time getting to their ammunition and powder. Even once they did finally get the door open, there was going to be a small company of Canadian rebels waiting inside.

Canada ran faster to join the fighting.

By the time he caught up to Lafayette's men, they had already broken down the gates, and were inside the fort. Though it was tempting to join the fight right away, Canada spent a few minutes looking for Lafayette first.

"Lafayette!" Canada called out as soon as he saw the French general. He ran over to join him.

"Mr. Williams," Lafayette said, sounding a little surprised. "You said you would be waiting inside the fort."

"I was almost caught, and had to make some emergency changes to the plan," Canada explained quickly.

Lafayette nodded. "That explains why they weren't caught by surprise," he said. He looked out on the grounds of the fort. "But my men seem to be doing fine despite that."

"Good."

With that, Canada readied his musket and ran straight into the battle. However, it was still dark out, and several volleys of musket fire had spread a blanket of smoke across the grounds of the fort, making it even harder to see. Nevertheless, Canada pushed forward, impaling British soldiers on the bayonet of his musket as he went.

Canada charged forward with such fury that he quickly overtook his own men. Before he knew it, he was completely surrounded by British soldiers. One of them fired, and the shot struck Canada in the left shoulder.

Canada cried out in pain, but kept both hands firmly gripped on his musket. He staggered backwards a few paces, and the other British soldiers all rushed him.

Swearing vilely at them in French, Canada swung wildly with his musket, and the bayonet slashed one soldier across the throat, but narrowly missed the man next to him. He kicked the next soldier in the stomach, and followed that up with a bayonet thrust through the man's heart. He shot the last one in the chest.

Attempting to run and reload the musket at the same time, Canada pressed forward once more. His progress was slowed by his wound, and Canada reluctantly stopped in order to finish reloading. Meanwhile, his men started to catch up to him, continuing their steady advance while Canada was otherwise occupied.

Canada finished reloading his musket and joined his men. He quickly took the lead again, continuing the pattern until they reached the doors of the general's headquarters.

Canada already knew Arnold wasn't going to be there, so when he reached those doors, he quickly turned around and faced his men.

"Find General Arnold," he commanded. "Don't let him escape!"

While his militiamen went looking for the traitor, Canada headed for the armory. The doors had been broken down, but there were dozens of British dead littered around the broken door. The Canadian militia that had been hiding there had done their job, and had since rejoined the main force in storming the fort.

There was no one in this area, so Canada promptly doubled back to join the fighting once more. By now, seeing conditions had improved; there hadn't been much musket fire since the first volleys at the beginning of the battle, and so the smoke had slowly started to dissipate. Along with that, the first rays of morning sunlight had just now become visible on the eastern horizon.

Canada scanned the battlefield ahead. At the rate things were going, this battle was likely to last well into the morning. Hopefully, though, by noon, the fort would be his. Canada charged forward, the thought providing impetus to his actions.

Reinforcements came pouring out of the barracks, halting the rebels' advance. The British soldiers fired one volley of musket fire into the Canadian ranks, then charged forward with their bayonets.

"Fire!" Canada yelled, and his men answered the British volley with one of their own, and the volley cut down a number of the British that had been charging.

"Ready your bayonets!"

Canada sprinted forward, bayonetting the first British soldier to come near him. He made several blind swings with his musket, before taking a British bayonet in the side. He seized the barrel of the musket that the bayonet was attached to, and kicked the owner as hard as he could.

The British soldier screamed and fell backwards, clutching his now broken leg. Canada tossed his enemy's weapon aside and leapt forward, sinking his own bayonet into the soldier's chest. The soldier let out a second strangled cry, then fell silent. Canada rose gingerly to his feet.

Swearing under his breath, Canada dropped his musket and inspected his wounds. They were bleeding quite badly, and he was exhausted and dizzy from the blood loss. Only now that he had stopped, and was no longer running on adrenaline, did Canada realize how physically spent he was.

"Sir!"

One of Canada's men rushed to his side, grabbing him by the shoulders to steady him, for he was swaying dangerously on his feet.

"Sir, you're badly wounded! You need to get out of here!" the militiaman said.

"I'll be fine… damn it…" Canada said weakly.

Canada tried to take a step forward, and nearly lost his balance. Had the other soldier not been there, he would have fallen flat on his face.

The soldier began dragging his country away from the battle. Canada no longer had a choice in the matter; he was too physically drained to resist. He watched his men overwhelm the last of Arnold's army while he himself was carried away from the battle for medical treatment.

"Where is Lafayette?" Canada asked. "I need to speak to Lafayette."

"Not until you've had those wounds treated!" the soldier said. "And you'd better get those treated fast; they look really bad. In fact, wounds as severe as yours would have killed most men by now."

_I'm not like most men,_ Canada thought.

"Fine. But as soon as I've been treated, send for Lafayette."

The soldier said nothing, but carried Canada back to the gates and laid him down. He went foraging through satchels and coats trying to find something with which to bind Canada's wounds. Finally, he found some bandages and some strips of cloth, and he tied them tightly around Canada's shoulder and waist to stanch the flow of blood.

Canada's wounds eventually stopped bleeding. Satisfied that his wounds were taken care of for the time being, the militiaman helped Canada to his feet. Canada began walking slowly back to the battle, even though it was just about over.

"Where are you going?" the militiaman asked incredulously.

"Find Lafayette," Canada ordered. "I need to know if his men captured that traitor Arnold."

Rather than do as Canada told him, the soldier remained at Canada's side. He did, however, escort Canada across the grounds of the fort until they found the French general.

When Canada finally saw Lafayette, he waved him over.

"Where is Benedict Arnold?" Canada asked.

Lafayette stared wide-eyed at Canada's bloodstained bandages.

"My God," he muttered. "Are you…?"

"I'm fine," Canada interrupted. "Where is Arnold?"

"Captured. He's being held with the other prisoners of war at the moment."

Canada let out a sigh of relief.

_I've done it, Alfred,_ Canada thought. _That traitor will finally hang._

Yet, despite that, today's victory felt hollow. He had just secured a vital step on the path to winning this second revolution, but the casualties he'd had to endure to do so were staggering. Canadian dead on the battlefield almost matched the number of British dead. Canada scanned the field, looking at all the men he'd lost, while his wounds throbbed with pain.

As if that weren't enough, a new, even more unpleasant sensation had been building in Canada's gut, and it filled him with a sense of foreboding. Something was going on somewhere else in the colonies, and it was about to blow up very fast.

_Another battle?_

Canada was floored by a sudden, searing pain in his abdomen. He put both hands over his stomach and curled into a fetal position. His mind went blank, and his body numb except for the white-hot burning pain.

He regained control of himself just long enough to identify the problem, but it provided no reprieve from the agony.

"Fire…" Canada gasped weakly. "Maryland and Pennsylvania… are on fire…"

The last thing he saw was Lafayette kneeling beside him, then everything went black.


	13. Chapter 13

**Author's Note: I am now officially on my summer break. I just hope I can turn this extra free time into more regular updates for you guys.**

* * *

For the next several days, England was reluctant to try the time travel spell again. He kept mentally arguing with himself, but before he could completely convince himself to try the spell again, he received a summons from King George, demanding a private audience.

_What does he want now?_

With a heavy sigh, England left the book in his room, changed clothes, and went to meet with his king. He spent much of the carriage ride staring at the floor, thinking. Doubtless, this meeting had something to do with the rebellion in the colonies.

In the last war, King George had ordered the American rebellion to be decisively crushed, summarily ignoring the colonists' attempts at reconciliation. The rebellion was indeed crushed, but clearly it had not been as decisive a victory as the king wanted, or there wouldn't be a second rebellion coming so soon on the heels of the first.

George was not going to be pleased.

_I can hear him already: 'go to the colonies and crush the rebellion! I don't care what it takes!'_ England thought morosely.

The carriage came to a halt, and England stepped out. He walked slowly with his gaze lowered, as if he were headed to the gallows rather than Buckingham Palace.

A short while later, England sat down in one of the rooms of the palace, King George sat in one of the other chairs, facing his country. In between the two chairs was a small table, with some papers spread across it.

Just like the king had said, this was a private audience; they were the only ones in the room.

"You sent for me, Your Majesty?" England began.

"Indeed I did," King George said curtly. He picked up one of the papers.

"What is that?" England asked.

"A petition from the colony of Virginia, asking for military assistance to drive the rebels out of their land," the king said. He put that paper down and picked up another one. "A report from General Clinton, saying that a _third_ Continental Congress has convened in Philadelphia, and the Continental Army has reorganized."

England paled, and a wave of pain and nausea swept over him.

_He's doing the _exact_ same things America did,_ he thought with dread. _Does he think this won't end the same way?_

England froze, taking note of the last paper on the table, which his king had not yet touched. Slowly lifting a trembling hand, England pointed at the paper.

"And that?" he asked.

"A letter, addressed to you," King George replied.

England frowned, confused. "From whom?"

The king handed the letter over.

"Read it," he said imperiously.

England accepted the letter, biting his tongue and forcing his expression to remain neutral. Glancing at the top of the letter showed that it was indeed addressed to England – the writer even used the country name instead of the human one. Several questions quickly sprang to mind, but England kept silent, hoping instead that his questions would be answered once he read the letter.

The writer had either scrawled this out in a hurry, or simply had abysmal penmanship, for it proved very difficult for England to read. A few sentences were completely unreadable, the handwriting was so bad.

The rest of the letter that England was able to read, however, quickly answered his questions. This was a request for personal assistance from England himself, and the letter's somewhat childish vocabulary hinted at who the author was even before England saw the signature at the bottom.

While reading, England stopped at one passage in particular, rereading it to double check that it said what he thought it did.

"_I've got the only four colonies that haven't joined the rebels, but they keep attacking me! One of the legislator men from Virginia says they're trying to bring back the United States of America, and they're trying to force us to join them. I need your help! Make him leave me alone!"_

England kept rereading the last sentence.

_Canada is attacking his own colonies? _

England finished the letter, and read the signature at the bottom of the page. It was signed "The Confederation of Loyalist Colonies".

_This must be that boy I found in Virginia!_ England thought. _But how does he have four of Canada's colonies?_

England put the letter down on the table.

"I gave every colony on that continent to Canada," he began, but trailed off, as if unsure of what he was trying to say.

"And now that brat has started a second rebellion!" King George said. He glared at England. "You told me that the rebellion had been thoroughly crushed; all traces of resistance gone. The rebellious spirit itself, destroyed."

"I thought it had!" England protested. He lowered his head, and continued in a much more subdued tone, "I thought it had died at West Point, along with… its personification…"

The king looked unimpressed.

"Well, it seems to have been resurrected," he said curtly. "Go back to the colonies and bury it. Permanently."

England flinched.

_Could he have chosen a more blatant way of ordering me to kill my own brother?! _

"Your Majesty-"

"I gave you the order!" King George interrupted. "Those colonies will never separate from the empire!"

"Yes, your Majesty," England said dejectedly, slumping slightly in his chair.

**(-)**

"_Get up! Please!"_

Canada jolted awake, his heart racing. He sat bolt upright, glancing around wildly, looking for the owner of that voice. It had sounded terrified and desperate, like the owner was pleading with a dying friend. And, given what he had just endured, it was hardly surprising for Canada to be the subject of such pleas.

But it took less than two seconds for Canada to realize that no one around him had said a word. The voice had been in his head.

And it sounded disturbingly familiar, too.

_I must be going mad…_

"General Williams?"

Canada blinked, staring blankly at the person who had just addressed him.

Lafayette was standing just a few feet away. One of his junior officers and a doctor stood on either side of him. Canada took a deep breath in an attempt to calm himself, and quickly scanned his surroundings.

He was seated on a cot, inside what appeared to be a barracks. Wounded soldiers lay in the other cots, while some of their comrades went about tending wounds. At a guess, they were in the barracks of West Point. The battle was over.

_I won, but I've lost almost half my men, _Canada thought. _And now British and Loyalist troops are burning border towns in Pennsylvania and Maryland…_

Canada groaned in pain, lowering his gaze as he clutched his abdomen.

"General Williams?" Lafayette repeated. "What happened?"

Canada forced himself to relax, and looked up at Lafayette.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"You said something about fire, and then lost consciousness," Lafayette replied.

"Oh."

Canada leaned forward, bringing his hands up to his face, massaging his forehead and temples.

_Lafayette doesn't know what I am,_ he thought. _I can't tell him how I know what's happening hundreds of miles away…_

"I don't remember what I said," Canada lied.

Lafayette nodded.

After a brief pause in which no one said anything, Canada slowly tried to climb out of the cot. The doctor moved forward, putting his arms out to brace Canada in case he fell. That proved unnecessary, however, as Canada rose to his feet, keeping his balance without help. The doctor lowered his arms, but stayed close to Canada's side.

By now, Canada's heart rate had returned to normal, and now that he was on his feet, his wounds didn't seem to bother him as much. Canada took a moment standing right where he was to take a few deep breaths. Then, he took several steps away from the cot, and looked pointedly at Lafayette.

"Benedict Arnold is still our prisoner?" Canada asked.

Lafayette inclined his head to indicate yes.

"Good. He is to be tried, and hanged for treason."

With that, Canada walked over to the door of the barracks. Lafayette dismissed his junior officer, then followed Canada outside.

"General Williams!" Lafayette called. "Where are you going?"

Canada came to a halt, and Lafayette quickly caught up to him.

"I need you to place the most trustworthy officer you know in command of this fort," Canada said. "But keep tabs on him. I don't want to lose West Point to another Arnold."

"Yes, sir." Lafayette furrowed his brow. His question hadn't been answered.

Canada sighed heavily and swayed on his feet. Regaining his balance, he then rested a hand on the bandaging on his waist. His eyes went out of focus for a second, but he quickly refocused his attention on Lafayette.

"Perhaps you should return to your cot and rest," Lafayette suggested, looking at Canada with concern.

Canada shrugged. "I will, later," he said distantly.

There was a pause.

"What happened to the British gunboats?" Canada asked.

"They're all docked, and the crews have been taken prisoner," Lafayette replied.

Canada nodded. "Good."

He headed for the gate, and a still confused Lafayette followed.

"Sir! Where are you going?" he asked.

"I'm just going to check on things around the fort," Canada replied. "See to the men while I'm gone."

Dismissing Lafayette with a wave of his hand, Canada left the fort. He headed down a dirt path that led to the docks. He wandered around the river's edge for a bit, but eventually gave up and sat down. Resting his chin in his hands, Canada stared blankly at the water; his reflection's tired, blue eyes staring blankly back.

_Hamilton's army has no doubt been driven out of Virginia,_ he thought. _I'm going to have to head down there and find him… _after _I deal with Arnold._

A light breeze blew across the water, distorting Canada's reflection. Canada turned away and lay down in the grass. After a while, he dozed off. He awoke a couple of hours later, in the late afternoon.

He rose to his feet and walked slowly back to the fort, where he returned to the barracks. The doctors checked on Canada's wounds, and fed him a small meal before he returned to his cot for the remainder of the day.

Sleep eluded him for most of the night. Pain from his wounds kept flaring up, and his groans of pain blended with those of the other wounded militiamen in the barracks. When at last he did fall asleep, he slept for only a few hours at a time, and then his wounds would wake him up again. At sunrise, he gave up and got out of bed.

Fortunately, as a personification, Canada's accelerated healing abilities allowed him to recover quickly from his wounds. His recovery was slow by nation standards, but still faster than any of his men. Within just a few days, Canada was already spending a lot of time on his feet, moving around, seeing to the various tasks of training the men, repairing the fort and meeting with his officers.

Eventually, the time came that Canada needed to leave West Point and find Hamilton. However, there was just one thing left to do before he left.

Benedict Arnold had finally been convicted of treason, and been sentenced to death by hanging. And, at Canada's insistence, the execution was held in New York, where the public could see. So, one morning in mid-May, Canada and a handful of his men had Arnold escorted to New York in chains.

When Canada and his men arrived in the square, a large crowd had already assembled around the gallows. They yelled and jeered at Arnold as Canada led him to the scaffold. Canada's men stood off to one side, leaving Arnold and Canada the only ones on the scaffold.

"This will do you no good," Arnold said. "History will brand you as the traitor, not me."

"I didn't sell my loyalty to the enemy and condemn my own country to die," Canada growled in response. "You, on the other hand…"

Arnold frowned. "The country is not dead. These colonies have survived the-"

Canada lost control. He struck Arnold hard across the face, not bothering to check his strength. Arnold cried out in pain and dropped to his knees, blood streaming out of his mouth and nostrils. The strike had broken his nose, fractured his cheekbone, and knocked out a tooth.

"_Not dead?!_" Canada snarled. "I'll be sure to tell him that!"

Several of Canada's men came running up to the scaffold. The crowd's jeering intensified in volume, spurred on by Canada's display.

"Sir! What are you doing?" one of the men asked Canada.

Canada unclenched his fists, but continued to glare at Arnold, still shaking with fury. While the soldiers got Arnold back on his feet, Canada calmed down just enough to reach for the noose and secure it around Arnold's neck.

The moment the noose was secure, all but one of Canada's men led their country off the scaffold. The one who stayed reached for the lever that controlled the trapdoor. He closed his hand around it, but did not pull it. Instead, one of the officers came forward to read the charges against Arnold. He was almost impossible to hear over the crowd, but occasionally, phrases like "treason against his country" and "defecting to the side of the enemy" stuck out.

When the officer finished, he gestured briefly to the man at the lever. Finally, the soldier pulled the lever. The trapdoor dropped out from under Arnold's feet, and a snap was heard as the rope went taut.

Benedict Arnold was dead.

Canada heaved a sigh of relief and visibly relaxed. He paid little attention as Arnold's body was removed from the gallows and unceremoniously dumped into a coffin, which was then hauled off to be buried somewhere.

With the spectacle over, the crowd quickly dispersed. On Canada's orders, the men returned to West Point, but Canada himself rode out of New York alone, headed south.

Lafayette had his orders. Now it was time to rendezvous with Hamilton, and find out what had happened to the southern colonies.

**(-)**

At the French royal court, France waited silently yet anxiously for news from the North American continent. Even though nothing would change the French king's decision to remain neutral, France still prayed fervently for Canada's victory. Unfortunately, what little news ever came of the war in the colonies, did not bode well.

The Continental Army had reorganized, but was just as outmatched as it had been in the last war. The most recent news told France that a Third Continental Congress had convened as well, but there was a major problem.

Delegates from Canada's original colonies had been in attendance, but several of _America's_ colonies had been absent. Conflicts of loyalty had created such a political rift between the colonies that four of the southern colonies had refused to attend. To make matters worse, all four had pledged loyalty to Britain, and declared war on their northern neighbors.

However, one day near the end of the month of May, instead of news, France got an unexpected visitor.

France had been playing a game of chess with Benjamin Franklin in one of the smaller, side rooms of the palace when the door burst open, causing both France and Franklin to jump. Half a second later, Prussia came strutting across the threshold.

"There you are!" Prussia said.

France stood up abruptly, the chess game totally forgotten. A confused Franklin glanced back and forth between the two European nations, waiting for an explanation.

"Prussia? What are you doing here?" France asked incredulously.

"Indeed, what is the occasion?" Franklin asked. "Has something come up?"

"It will very soon," Prussia said with a smirk. "I hear Britain has been asking for an asskicking. So, I'm going to go help give him one."

France paled. "You're not seriously planning an invasion, are you?"

Prussia laughed. "No! That's not what I meant at all! But his colonies are acting up, trying to separate from the empire again. I figured they could use help from the awesome Kingdom of Prussia!"

"You're lending military support to the colonies?" France asked. Some of the color had returned to his face, but he still looked uneasy.

"As much as I can while still remaining officially neutral," Prussia said, his smile fading a bit. "And don't look at me like that. You're doing the exact same thing."

"That's splendid news, Prussia," Franklin said. "But why come here and announce it to us? You could have just gone straight to the colonies, and we would have heard about it within a few months."

Prussia pointed at France. "Because this loser is coming with me," he said.

"I beg your pardon?!" France looked horrified.

"You heard me," Prussia said. "For God's sake, France, your own brother has been trying for the last two years to take on the British Empire by himself, and you've just been sitting here! The least you can do is lend your personal assistance, even if your king is an idiot and won't do anything himself."

A long, uncomfortable silence ensued. For a while, France just stared at Prussia, temporarily at a loss for words.

"What?" Prussia asked. "Damn it, France, I don't want a repeat of what happened to America! I barely even knew the poor kid, but when I found out on my own what England did to him…"

Anger flashed briefly in the Prussian's ruby eyes. His anger was not directed at France, but the French nation nevertheless returned the glare.

"I don't want to lose Canada either!" France retorted. "But my hands are tied! King Louis has declared France neutral! I can do nothing!"

"Liar," Prussia said softly. "I know you're sending aid behind the king's back. What's stopping you from actually going over there as well?"

France froze. He looked contemplative for a moment.

"Well, nothing, really," he said. "But, eventually, my king would find out what I was doing. And you probably already know how we are punished when a country goes against the orders of his king."

"And if the king can be convinced to change his mind, and side with the rebels, he wouldn't need to punish you, would he?" Franklin cut in.

A tense pause followed.

"I suppose not," France said at last. He sighed. "Alright."

A smirk tugged at Prussia's lips.

"Does that mean you're coming?" he asked.

"…Yes," France said quietly. "I don't know what I can do by myself, but it must be better than sitting in constant worry here."

"Good!" Prussia clapped his hand on France's shoulder. "We leave at the end of the week!"

France took a step back. "We?" he asked.

"I said you were coming with me," Prussia said. "We may as well leave on the same ship."

France furrowed his brow. "That's not quite what I was asking. Are you dragging anyone else along?"

Prussia snorted. "No," he said. "Seems Europe as a whole wants to stay out of this fight. Besides, _you're_ Canada's brother. If anyone in Europe needs to go help him, it's you."

France crossed his arms. "Then why are you so insistent on going?" he demanded. "You said earlier that you barely knew those boys."

"That's true," Prussia admitted. "I personally trained America nine years ago, and that was the only time I ever saw him. And as for Canada… I've never met him. But I already told you why I'm going."

Another pause.

"Fine. I'll see you at the end of the week."

France excused himself, having apparently forgotten all about his earlier chess match with Franklin. Prussia and Franklin exchanged glances.

"Thank you, Prussia," Franklin said. He sat back down at his side of the table, as if patiently waiting for France to return.

"Of course," Prussia said. He followed France outside.


	14. Chapter 14

**Author's Note: England and France left their countries before Canada took West Point. It's going to take them a while to reach the North American continent, so their segments will have to wait until next chapter.**

**In the meantime, Canada has a run-in with the Loyalist personification...**

* * *

Canada ran into Hamilton's army not far south of Philadelphia. The fiery pain in Canada's body already indicated how dire the situation was; Hamilton's news merely confirmed it.

Hamilton invited Canada to the commander's pavilion to discuss the current situation, and possible plans.

"A combined force of Loyalist militia and British regulars drove us out of Virginia," Hamilton told Canada as the two sat down at the desk in the center of the pavilion. "They've been pursuing ever since. I think they intend to corner us in Philadelphia."

Canada grabbed one of Hamilton's maps and spread it across the table. A tense silence followed as both men stared intently at the map.

"Have you tried to repel them?"

"Several times," Hamilton replied grimly. "But my army lacks the strength. We were outnumbered to begin with, and we've taken heavy losses."

"But we can't afford to let them take Philadelphia," Canada said.

"What other option do we have?" Hamilton asked. "If we stay here, the army will be decimated."

"And if you keep fleeing, they'll run us all the way to New York!" Canada interrupted. "We _must_ stop them before they advance any further."

Hamilton slammed his hands on the table.

"How do you suggest we do that?" he asked.

Canada took in a deep breath, then exhaled sharply. Tapping his index finger on the edge of the table, Canada glared at the map, thinking.

For a long time, nothing came to him. His mind was blank, bereft of a viable strategy. Only the two options he and Hamilton had already discussed presented themselves: stay, and lose the army in a futile attempt to defend Philadelphia; or, flee and lose the entire colonies of Maryland, Pennsylvania, and possibly Delaware to the British. It meant defeat either way.

Canada shook his head vigorously. There had to be another way.

"Send for reinforcements," Canada said. "Lafayette's in New York…"

"And leave the northern colonies undefended?" Hamilton asked.

"They won't be undefended. There are several regiments of militia from Halifax, Quebec, Massachusetts…"

"They are untrained and leaderless. They wouldn't even slow down a British offensive."

"It's all I've got."

Hamilton froze, regarding Canada with a shocked expression. Canada stared back, his face set with unwavering determination.

"You sound like you intend to try anyway," Hamilton said.

Canada inclined his head slowly. Hamilton leaned back in his chair, lowering his gaze to the map.

"I appreciate the confidence," Hamilton said, though his grim tone seemed to indicate otherwise. "But confidence by itself won't be enough."

Canada frowned. "I know."

Hamilton lifted his gaze back to Canada. For well over a minute, the tent was silent. Neither man moved.

"Fine."

Hamilton abruptly ended the tense silence and stood up, rolling the map up and putting it away.

"Ride back to New York, and bring back as many reinforcements as you can find," Hamilton commanded. "You have three days."

**(-)**

Canada's horse almost couldn't handle the strain of riding nonstop to New York at a full gallop. But Canada had been given such a small window of time to collect much-needed reinforcements that he had no other choice but to push the poor beast to its limits. Upon arriving in New York, Canada immediately met with Lafayette, and spent a very brief meeting trying to apprise the French general of the situation without collapsing from exhaustion. Fortunately, Canada retained enough strength to walk out of the meeting on his own two feet, and retire to the barracks, where he slept for several hours.

Just before the dawn of the following morning, however, Canada was up, gathering the reinforcements Lafayette had promised in yesterday's meeting. The French general had been unable to spare any of the men stationed at West Point, but by that afternoon, Canada had a regiment of New York militia ready to march.

But one regiment of untrained volunteers was not enough.

"Are there any more militia in the area?" Canada asked Lafayette.

"I've been promised reinforcements from as far north as Quebec and Massachusetts Bay," Lafayette replied. "But they won't arrive for at least five more days."

Canada hung his head, pulling on his hair in frustration. "That's not enough time… Please tell me there are more men nearby, that will be here today or tomorrow."

Lafayette looked thoughtful.

"New Jersey," he said. "I think there are some men coming from New Jersey."

"Good."

Canada left without another word.

The next morning, Canada led two regiments of militia – one from New York, the other from New Jersey – out of the New York colony at the crack of dawn, marching at a rapid pace towards Pennsylvania. Yet, for as much as Canada pushed the men, he still missed Hamilton's deadline. By nightfall, Canada's little army had not yet merged with Hamilton's, and Canada was forced to call a halt so the men could rest for the night.

Canada roused his men the next morning while it was still dark, and quickly got them on the move again. They merged with Hamilton's army late that afternoon. Canada went into his meeting with General Hamilton prepared to apologize profusely for being so late.

The apology never happened. Canada barely had time to even step inside the tent before Hamilton sent him right back out.

"I don't have time to berate you for being late," Hamilton said. "My scouts have reported Loyalist forces are advancing on us. We have to move."

"Where are we going?" Canada asked.

"The enemy has split its forces. The Loyalist militia is coming straight for us, but the British regulars are headed northwest. I think their general is using the militia as a decoy to distract us while the British march on Philadelphia. We need to stop them."

"Who? The militia, or the regulars?"

"Both. If we ignore the militia, they'll cut us down from behind before we catch the British."

"Sir, we can't engage both at once –"

"Take those reinforcements you brought, and stop the militia's advance. My men and I will handle the British."

"But you're outnumbered!"

"Not while their armies are split. We actually stand a slightly better chance this way."

At that, Canada fell silent. Hamilton had a point.

General and country parted ways, and the two armies prepared to march. Mounting his still-tired horse, Canada led his militia south, to where the Loyalist militia were reported to have been seen. Hamilton's army headed in the opposite direction.

Not long into the march, when Canada looked over his shoulder, the Continental Army had already disappeared from sight. He and the militia now marched alone in the Pennsylvania countryside. Canada rode at the forefront of his force, scanning the hills for signs of the enemy. At first, his searching came up empty. However, just when Canada was starting to believe he had been tricked, something appeared on the roadside on a distant hill.

"Halt!" Canada commanded. He reached for his spyglass in hopes of getting a closer look at whatever this was on the side of the road.

Canada's expression hardened, and his eyes flashed with newfound fury. That something turned out to be that young boy he met in Richmond; the same brat that had stolen four of Canada's colonies, and attacked two others.

The boy simply stood there, holding a gun – a rifle, specifically – that appeared to be much too big for him, yet he held it in one hand with the same ease that he might hold a small stick.

_Where are your men?_ Canada wondered as he continued to watch the boy.

A company of militiamen marched into view, stopping several paces away from the boy, answering Canada's question. Canada quickly scanned the boy's force, attempting to estimate their numbers and compare it to his own strength.

_I actually have superior numbers,_ Canada thought with surprise. He put the spyglass away.

"The enemy is over there!" Canada pointed. "Prepare to attack!"

The words had just barely left Canada's mouth, and both sides scrambled to get in position. Soldiers readied their muskets while continuing to march, until commanders on both sides called their men to halt, right as each side came into firing range of the other. One of the officers from the Loyalist force stepped forward.

"Rebels!" he shouted across the field. "This is your only warning! Lay down your arms, and you will not be harmed!"

Before any of his own officers could react, Canada rode ahead to meet the enemy officer. He dismounted and stood directly in front of him.

"Are you the commander of these men?" the officer asked.

"Yes," Canada replied. He stole a glance at the militia behind the officer, but did not see the boy anywhere.

_As small as he is, he's probably hidden by the other soldiers,_ he thought. _I'll find him soon enough, however._

"Will you lay down your arms and surrender?" the officer asked.

Canada returned his attention to the officer.

"No," he said bluntly. "But I will offer you the chance to lay down _your _arms. Surrender now, and I promise you no harm will come to your men."

The officer's earlier commanding demeanor faded. He did not speak, but shot Canada a disparaging glare before turning on his heel and signaling his men. Just like that, all hope of peaceful negotiation had vanished.

Canada jumped back on his horse and rode back behind his own lines, then promptly dismounted again, readying his musket. Someone yelled "Fire!" and both sides let off simultaneous volleys of musket fire. Screams of wounded soldiers joined the cacophony of gunfire just a split second later, and smoke quickly clouded the field.

Canada ran toward the front line, holding his musket up, ready for the second volley. The thirty second wait for his men to reload seemed to drag on and on, but finally, a voice yelled "Fire!" and the second volley flew into the enemy lines. Not two seconds later, the Loyalist militia returned the favor, their second volley ripping through the rebel front line – a few of the shots narrowly missing Canada.

After those two volleys, the battle fell into chaos. Smoke had so completely covered the middle of the field that it was nearly impossible to see either the rebel or Loyalist lines. Canada attempted to lead a bayonet charge, but only half his men followed him; the rest fell back. Some attempted a third volley, but a few simply fled the battle.

"Charge!" Canada yelled. He and his men ran head-on into the smoke, bayonets pointed directly ahead.

Canada's charge was abruptly interrupted when he slammed right into a Loyalist militiaman. Canada grunted in pain and surprise; both he and the militiaman had had their bayonets pointed in front of them, and so they had impaled each other.

Tightening his grip on his musket, Canada kicked his enemy in the stomach while simultaneously pulling his musket out of the man's chest. The Loyalist soldier was sent careening backwards, eventually collapsing in the bloodstained grass. He did not get back up. Canada, meanwhile, stumbled backward a few paces, but stopped himself and looked down to inspect his wound.

_Damn it, I wasn't even fully healed from the wounds I got at West Point…_

Most of the front of Canada's shirt was soaked in blood. Canada rested on hand on the wound itself, and swore loudly in French.

A chest wound. And a rather severe one, at that.

_I can't keep making mistakes like this,_ he berated himself. _It might be England's bayonet next time…_

Gritting his teeth and trying to ignore the pain, Canada readied his musket and pressed forward again. He only covered a short distance, and then he stopped again, but not because someone had run into his bayonet.

A child-sized figure had appeared in the distance amid the smoke and chaos of the battle. It held a rifle much too big for it, yet it carried the weapon with ease.

Canada's heart plummeted.

_Dear God, no… please not now…_

Canada feverishly attempted to load his musket as quickly as he could. Unfortunately, his hands were slick with blood, he was growing lightheaded from blood loss, and his panicked motions only served to make his movements clumsy and unsuccessful. Alternating between cursing and praying, Canada fought to keep his trembling hands under control while he loaded his musket.

He finally loaded the musket, and he aimed it at the boy, right as the boy finally noticed Canada, and aimed his rifle at him.

_Alfred, I – _

Canada fired first. His shot struck the boy in the right shoulder, causing his arm to move such that his aim was thrown way off, and the boy's shot flew somewhere behind Canada, missing him completely. The boy cried out in pain, dropped his musket, and staggered backwards, clutching his wounded shoulder with the opposite arm.

On either side of Canada, rebel militia surged forward. Half of the Loyalist line had collapsed, and their men fled en masse. Loyalist officers struggled to hold the remaining half of the army intact, while Canada's rebels split up; some pursued the fleeing Loyalists, the rest pressed their attack on the half of the militia that still remained on the field. Canada took a moment to survey the rest of the field.

Both sides had taken heavy losses. The smoke from the beginning of the battle had faded, revealing a field strewn with dozens of casualties. What grass was visible under the mess of bodies had turned a dark shade of red.

"Ugh…"

Canada's heart raced. The boy's voice jolted Canada's attention back to himself, and his immediate situation.

The boy walked unsteadily towards his rifle. He all but collapsed beside it and reached for it, attempting to pick it up.

"No!"

Canada ran in almost drunken manner at the boy, attempted to swing his musket at him, but missed. His momentum carried him several more paces forward, and he accidentally crashed into the boy just as the boy was closing his hands around the rifle's grip. Both nations fell into the grass.

The boy screamed and punched Canada in the face with his left hand. Canada rolled to the side, his body pinning the boy's right arm to the ground. He tossed his musket aside and wrested the rifle from the boy's grip, then rose gingerly to his feet. As he held the rifle, Canada noticed something inscribed on the weapon's grip.

A name.

A.F. Jones.

_Where did he get this?!_ Canada thought.

"Give that back!" the boy cried, pushing himself up onto his feet as well.

He seized the rifle before Canada could pull it out of reach, and pulled with all his might. When that failed, he tried kicking Canada in the knee. Canada's legs buckled, and he fell, but kept his death grip on the rifle. Giving a stronger tug on the rifle, Canada dragged the boy down into the grass as well.

"Let go! That's mine!"

Almost as if to actually obey the command, Canada relaxed and opened his left hand. The boy tried to pull the rifle out of Canada's other hand, but Canada reached forward, seized the boy's right arm and twisted it, and the boy let out a shrill scream of pain that made Canada flinch at the sound.

The boy dropped the rifle. Canada released the boy's arm. Picking up America's rifle, Canada rose slowly to his feet for the last time.

"I don't know where you got this, but it is not yours. It is my brother's," Canada said coldly.

"A.F. Jones is our brother?" the boy asked, propping himself up on his left arm, while his right arm hung uselessly at his side, bleeding and broken. "What is he?"

Canada stood absolutely still.

"Did you say 'our' brother?" he asked. "Who and what are _you_?"

"The part of these colonies that is still loyal to England!" the boy replied. He pointed an accusing finger at Canada. "And _you_ are the rebel colonies, the so-called 'United States of America'…"

The boy trailed off, suddenly looking confused.

"So then who is A.F. Jones?" he asked.

Canada did not answer right away. His mind was still reeling from the shock of hearing this enemy personification claim to be his and America's brother.

"England doesn't tell you very much, does he?" Canada said finally.

"What do you mean?"

"I am not the United States of America. My brother Alfred was."

The boy blinked. "Was?"

Canada nodded. "He's dead now. England killed him, and gave the colonies to me."

"But people are saying the rebels are trying to create the 'United States' again," the boy said. "I thought that was you…"

"I'm not," Canada said flatly. "I'm not America. I actually used to be Canada, but I'm not that either. Not anymore. Not since Alfred died."

"Then what are you?"

Canada balked.

_I don't know anymore. I stand for both, and yet I am neither…_

"A new nation," Canada said. "That's… all you need to know."

With that, Canada slung America's rifle over his shoulder and turned around, heading back to his side of the battlefield.


	15. Chapter 15

**Hi guys, I'm really sorry about that wait. I hope my work is worth the ridiculous waits I make you guys put up with...**

* * *

After the victory against the Loyalist militia, Canada rushed to rejoin General Hamilton's force. His militia surprised the British army from behind, rescuing Hamilton's army from near defeat. The British retreated south, and Hamilton and Canada retreated to Philadelphia so their men could rest and treat the wounded. For the next few months, the war settled into a stalemate, with the British unable to merge a large enough force to seriously challenge any of the rebel strongholds, and the rebels having suffered such severe losses that they could not pursue the British any further.

Come October, however, Canada received disturbing news. A British fleet was on its way to his shores, anticipated to arrive within just a few weeks, carrying tens of thousands of reinforcements, and the British Empire's best generals.

Including one by the name of Arthur Kirkland.

During the voyage from his lands to the North American continent, England had no way of learning what was happening. The last news he had received were the reports and letters that King George had shown him. Until he set foot on the continent, and spoke to either Canada or the Loyalist Confederation in person, England could only guess at how the war fared.

That predicament made for an uneasy several months on board his ship. England constantly found himself pacing irritably in his room belowdecks, and when he grew tired of that, he would sit down and thumb through his spellbook. Every time, he stopped on the same page.

The time travel spell.

England spent many long hours staring at that page, while speculation, questions and doubt ran circles in his mind. However, he never attempted to cast the spell during the voyage; he needed to wait until he landed, where he could find a safe, secluded location.

The fleet arrived on the coast of New York late in the month of October. England disembarked, gave a handful of quick, curt orders to his officers, and disappeared into the abandoned mansion that used to be the governor's home. In the eerie quiet of what used to be the drawing room, England paced back and forth, weighing his options.

Winter was just weeks away. Any offensive launched now probably would not advance fast enough to reach England's objective before the winter storms hit. To make matters worse, a courier arrived the next day with news of everything England had missed during his voyage across the Atlantic. The war was going worse than he had thought.

England furiously dismissed the courier, then sent for General Cornwallis. He collapsed in the nearest chair, rereading the courier's dispatch in anger and disbelief.

Cornwallis arrived shortly thereafter, and after exchanging brief pleasantries, England gestured for his general to have a seat.

"What happened?" Cornwallis asked.

England handed over the dispatch.

"Have you heard the latest news of the situation here?" England asked.

"I had heard the rebels were putting up stronger resistance than we had anticipated," Cornwallis replied as he started to read.

Both of them fell silent while Cornwallis finished reading. When he did finish, Cornwallis slowly set the paper down on the desk in front of him.

"We will need to reevaluate our strategy," Cornwallis said.

England stood up quickly, seizing the dispatch from the table as he did so.

"I know!" England said irritably. "With West Point lost, we can't take anything west of the Hudson!"

"And we're not equipped to try retaking it," Cornwallis mused softly. "We may have to change our objective completely."

England ran a hand through his hair.

"Where?" he demanded.

Cornwallis looked like he was about to reply, but England held up his hand to stop him, a look of realization on his face.

"Never mind, we'll stay here," England said. "The city of New York and most of the immediate surrounding area is totally undefended. If we can establish a foothold here, close the harbor to any ships but our own…"

Cornwallis nodded thoughtfully.

"But what about our allies in the South?" England went on. "It's a stalemate at the moment, but what if Canada brings reinforcements from further north?"

"If I send part of our force to Charleston," Cornwallis said. "That will bolster the defenses in the South, and possibly be enough to mount an offensive later… although that would likely depend on the rebels' response."

He paused, resting his chin in his hands.

"What will you do, England?" Cornwallis asked. "Will you stay here, or go to Charleston?"

England did not reply right away. For a minute, he just stood there in silence, weighing his options.

_I don't know where Canada is, or what he's planning,_ he thought. _But I may stand a better chance of finding him here. At the same time, I need to talk to that boy, the new personification…_

England's gaze drifted to a locked trunk that sat on the floor by the wall to his left. Inside that trunk were his uniform and personal effects, including his spellbook.

"I will go to Charleston."

**(-)**

France and Prussia arrived in New York Harbor only a week ahead of the British fleet. They stayed in the city for several days, hoping to find or at least hear word of Canada's whereabouts. However, when the British fleet appeared in the distance, rapidly closing in on the harbor, the two nations agreed they could no longer stay in New York. Fortunately, by the time they left, they had already gathered plenty of information on what was going on in the colonies, and they had a guess as to where Canada was. So, when they left, Prussia and France purchased a couple of horses, rode out of New York at a gallop, and headed for the Pennsylvania colony.

They arrived in Philadelphia a few days later, and it did not take long for them to find Canada among the officers in the Continental Army.

Rather, Canada found them. He walked in on his fellow nations while they were meeting with General Hamilton in his improvised headquarters in the State House.

As Canada opened the door, France turned around to see who it was. He and Canada saw each other at the same time, and Canada suddenly froze. While Canada tried to keep his expression neutral, that exercise proved futile in less than a second, as his eyes briefly went wide with surprise, though his shock was quickly replaced with joy, and he couldn't hold back his smile.

"Papa?" he mouthed. He took a few slow, small steps forward.

By this time, Prussia and Hamilton had noticed Canada as well. Prussia beamed at the young nation, but Hamilton frowned as if confused.

"General?" Hamilton said. "These men are friends of yours?"

Canada's smile faded slightly, and he stole a brief glance at Prussia before answering.

_Who is this?_

"Yes…" Canada began with slight hesitation.

"More accurately, General, this is my adoptive brother," France cut in, returning his attention to Hamilton. "Monsieur Beilschmidt is a friend of mine, but he has not met my brother."

"I see." Hamilton nodded his understanding, and gestured for Canada to have a seat at one of the nearby desks.

Canada took a seat next to France. Hamilton, who sat directly across from France, leaned forward in his chair, directing everyone's attention to the map that lay spread out on the desk.

"Before you walked in, General, Mr. Bonnefoy and Mr. Beilschmidt were informing me of what they are doing here, and what they saw shortly after they arrived," Hamilton said.

"Oh?" Canada's eyebrows went up slightly, and he stole a quizzical glance at France. "What happened?"

"The British fleet has arrived in New York," France said grimly.

Canada visibly tensed up.

"The city is probably completely under their control by now," France continued.

"So they've got a foothold in the middle colonies from which to launch attacks," Hamilton added. Placing a finger on the map, starting at New York, he traced a route from New York to the Hudson River. "Their next objective is no doubt West Point."

Canada slammed a hand on the desk.

"Send reinforcements to West Point!" he said.

"We've been recruiting in every colony from here to Halifax," Hamilton replied with a tinge of annoyance. "Ever since I heard the British fleet was coming, I've been trying to bolster our defenses wherever possible; in fact, there are several units on their way to West Point as we speak."

Canada leaned back, relaxing slightly at Hamilton's words. Prussia folded his arms, looking decidedly unimpressed.

"Numbers alone won't hold that fort," Prussia said flatly. "How many of those men are actually trained?"

"Very few," Hamilton admitted. "They're just volunteers, ordinary men, with no military experience. They wouldn't know the first thing about marching, drilling, discipline…"

"I suggest getting those men whipped into shape, and fast," Prussia said. "As an officer with many years of experience in the Prussian military, I could help with that. See, the Prussian army is one of the finest militaries in Europe – hell, probably the entire world – your men couldn't be trained by anyone better."

Hamilton narrowed his eyes.

"This sounds familiar," he said. "Nine years ago, when Baron von Steuben was training Washington's men at Valley Forge, he had a guy with him constantly making similar boasts about the Prussian army…"

Prussia smirked. Hamilton stared at the Prussian nation in silence for several seconds, thinking.

"That _was _you, wasn't it?" Hamilton asked.

Canada stole a glance at Prussia.

_He must be the personification of Prussia,_ Canada thought. _He came here nine years ago to train America personally? And now he's here to do the same for me?_

"Fine," Hamilton said, after another pause. "If Washington trusted you, I probably can."

"What are you going to have him do?" Canada asked.

"Train the troops at West Point," Hamilton replied, though his attention remained fixed on Prussia. "General Williams and I will stay here and train these men."

"General Hamilton," France cut in. "With your permission, I would like to stay with this army as well. With my experience in the French military, I think I could prove useful to you as well."

Hamilton nodded.

"Williams and I are going to need as much help as we can get," he said. He traced his finger further south on the map, eventually stopping on Maryland. "The Maryland colony has been lost to combined Loyalist and Redcoat forces. Our ultimate goal is take Maryland back, but we need to make sure we don't lose any additional ground first. The enemy has retreated, but they will reorganize and strike again."

He traced Maryland's northern border from Pennsylvania to Delaware.

"They're after Philadelphia because that's our capital, and where they _think_ the Continental Congress is," Hamilton continued. He waved his hand dismissively. "Congress fled several days ago, but that's irrelevant. The point is that right _here_ is the spot the British are most likely to attack."

Hamilton pointed to the spot on the Maryland border that was closest to Philadelphia.

"That puts the colonies of Delaware and New Jersey in danger as well," he said.

"So if we set up positions there first, we can keep the British from advancing further north?" Canada ventured.

"They could just go around if they find their path blocked," France said.

"Which is why it is imperative that we keep a close eye on British movements, so that we can intercept them," Hamilton said.

"Spies," Canada said. He looked expectantly over at Hamilton. "Do we have any spies in the British camp?"

"No," Hamilton said grimly.

Canada let out an exasperated sigh, scanning the map with a disappointed look on his face.

"Then how do we track the British movements?" he asked.

"It shouldn't be hard to send in a few spies," France said with a shrug. "As long as they are very, _very_ careful about not being caught…"

"You make it sound like such careful, reliable men are easy to find," Hamilton protested.

France flashed a brief smile.

"You're talking to a few right this moment, monsieur."

Prussia arched an eyebrow, and his characteristic smirk began playing at his lips. Canada, meanwhile, shot a questioning look at France. Hamilton leaned back in his chair, resting his hands on his knees. Unlike the nations in front of him, he forced his expression to remain blank.

"Are you volunteering to spy on the British for us?" Hamilton asked. "I thought you were an officer, not a spy."

"A man can be both," France said nonchalantly.

"Hmmm…"

For a minute, no one said anything. Then, Hamilton stood up suddenly, rolling up the map and putting it away. He stood behind his chair, tapping his finger on it.

"You can trust him, General," Canada said softly.

Hamilton nodded. He ceased his finger tapping and looked back at the three nations.

"Mr. Beilschmidt," he said. "How soon can you leave for West Point?"

"I could leave right now if you'd like!" Prussia replied.

"And Mr. Bonnefoy, when can you begin your mission?"

"First thing tomorrow morning," France said. "I must prepare…"

"Fine. Mr. Beilschmidt, come with me. I have a few more things I want to discuss before I send you to West Point."

Prussia stood up, and followed Hamilton out of the room. After the door shut behind them, an eerie silence fell on the room. Canada stared intently at the floor, while France gazed distractedly at the board on the wall opposite him. The silence persisted for several minutes while the two countries thought.

_England's probably with that fleet in New York,_ Canada thought. _But will he stay there? And where should I go? Lafayette and Prussia will hold West Point; there's no need to go there… _

Canada toyed nervously with his coat sleeve, all the while continuing to stare at the floor.

_My only other option is to stay here and fight the Loyalist boy. He's stolen Maryland from me now… I need to take it and the rest of the South back, before I lose any more of Alfred's people…_

Canada abruptly stopped. He frowned.

_Strange. Five years ago when England made me America's replacement, I didn't want his colonies. Now that I'm losing them, I want them back…_

France finally broke the silence.

"Mathieu."

Canada jolted out of his reverie, and looked questioningly at France.

"What?"

"Are you all right?"

"Um…" Canada balked and looked away, as if unsure how to answer the question.

France rested a compassionate hand on Canada's shoulder. Canada sighed, and relented.

"The war is taking its toll," he said. "I've barely been able to hold my own against the British troops that were already here. The victory at West Point was practically a miracle, but even then, the losses I sustained in exchange for that fort…"

Canada trailed off, and tears suddenly welled up in his eyes. It took serious effort for him to not start crying right then and there.

"And now England has brought the full force of the British army with him," he continued, shakily. "What do I do…?"

"Keep fighting," France said. "Fight with everything you have. Remember, you've got the whole continent at your disposal."

"Not anymore."

France looked taken aback.

"What?" he asked.

"You know I no longer control Virginia, the Carolinas, and Georgia. The Loyalists and their British allies drove my men out, and stole those colonies from me."

"I know, but I thought, as personification of – "

"I'm not their personification anymore!" Canada interrupted. "Someone new has appeared… he took those colonies from me. I can't feel or hear them anymore."

"What?! A _new_ personification?!" France's eyes widened in shock. "How?"

"I don't know," Canada said. "But he's leading the Loyalist force that's occupying Maryland right now."

France lowered his gaze, sighing heavily.

"Do you know what he looks like?" he asked.

"He looks like a child, between eight and ten years old," Canada replied.

France nodded, but still looked uneasy.

_Something doesn't seem right. Why is there a new personification, when Canada already had all the colonies?_

"I'll keep an eye out for him," France said.

**(-)**

Prussia rode to West Point, arriving as winter began sweeping across the colonies. As promised, he began training the men right away, putting them through all the rigorous exercises and drills he had to offer.

Hamilton and Canada stayed in Pennsylvania, where they repeatedly drilled their men as well, keeping the army prepared in case of attack. Over the course of the winter, France made several trips into enemy territory. He and a handful of American volunteers would carefully disguise themselves and take thorough note of the enemy's activity, then deliver the information back to Hamilton.

England, meanwhile, split his forces. Keeping most of his army and fleet in New York, England himself then sailed with the rest down to Charleston. From there, they marched north to join the Loyalist army in Maryland. The journey took them several weeks; England did not see the Loyalist army camp until late December.

Almost immediately upon arriving in the Loyalist camp, England went looking for the boy. He wandered the camp for several hours, shivering against the frigid wind as he searched. He eventually found the boy sitting alone in his tent, cleaning a musket. England let himself inside and stood in front of the boy. A few seconds later, the boy set the musket aside and looked up at England, a pleasantly surprised smile on his face.

"England?" the boy asked.

"Yes," England replied. He glanced away, thinking.

The boy stood up, grabbing the musket again to put it away. He then quickly returned to his spot, but did not sit back down. Instead, he looked expectantly up at England, waiting for him to continue. When England gestured for him to sit, he sat back down. England sat on the floor beside him.

"I received your letter," England said. "I presume the signature you put down is your nation name? The Confederation of Loyalist Colonies?"

The boy frowned. "Yes," he said simply. "What other name would I put?"

England sighed. "We nations tend to adopt ordinary human names, which we use when around people that don't know what we are. What is your human name? I don't think you ever told me…"

"Oh," the boy said, suddenly looking distant. "I think it's… Jones?"

Although it wasn't that cold in that tent, England felt like his blood just froze.

"What… is your first name?" England asked hesitantly.

"Alan – Alec – Alexander? Alexander. That's the name I picked for myself."

"Alexander Jones?" England said. "That's your name? You sounded unsure."

_Why is he using the same last name Alfred used? How would he even know…?_

"Well, I found about the name 'Jones' when I ran into the United States in a battle outside Philadelphia," the boy began.

England's heart skipped several beats. His eyebrows shot up, and he stared at the boy in shock.

"The United States?" he asked, trying not to let his voice crack.

"Yes, although he insisted he wasn't the United States. He said his brother, Alfred Jones, was."

"Oh…" _He met Canada, then. He thinks Canada is the personification of the United States._

England was hit with a wave of mixed emotions. The young colony's words had suddenly reminded him of his time travel attempt several months ago, and the images he had seen. America – and it was definitely America, the voice and appearance matched too closely for it to have been anyone else – seated at a desk, in a room with Canada and England's older self.

For half a second, England thought America had come back. But that tiny shred of hope was all too quickly dashed. The vision still had no explanation.

Between the disappointment, frustration, confusion and guilt, it almost physically hurt.

"He's the rebel personification, but he's also my brother, right?" Alexander asked. "That makes Alfred Jones my brother too. So… I thought we had the same last name…"

England lowered his head and ran his hands down his face. _That's not how that works…_

"Alfred Jones is just the human name he took for himself," England explained. "His brother's name is Matthew Williams. Matthew is the nation you met in Pennsylvania."

"But they're still my brothers, right?" Alexander asked, his face becoming etched with worry.

England hesitated before replying.

"I think so," he said.

Alexander frowned.

"I didn't know I had two brothers," he said, and his voice took on a darker tone that made the hairs on the back of England's neck stand on end.

A tense silence followed while Alexander lowered his gaze, staring intently at the ground. When he looked back at England, he still wore that vulnerable, worried look.

"But Matthew said Alfred is dead," he said. "He said you killed him."

England sighed heavily and blinked back tears as the guilt washed over him anew.

"The colonists fought and lost their war for independence. Alfred… was killed in the conflict," he said, his voice wavering. He took another deep breath, then continued, "But I never meant to kill him… I didn't even realize what I had done until it was too late…"

"Oh…"

Yet another uncomfortable silence fell on the tent. England and Alexander both stared at the ground for a while, and they each retreated into their own thoughts for a minute.

England eventually broke the silence.

"I will never make that mistake again," he said quietly but resolutely.

Alexander looked up at England.

"I will not lose you," England continued. "And I will not lose Matthew. I don't care what it takes; I will see you both still alive at the end of this war…"

Alexander scooted closer to England, and lifted his arms. England took the boy's arms and pulled him onto his lap, drawing him into a hug. It was all too brief, however, as Alexander got back on his feet shortly afterward.

"How?" he asked. "Matthew's our enemy; how are you going stop us from shooting each other when we're on the battlefield?"

When England did not immediately reply, Alexander turned around and left the tent.

England spent several minutes alone in the tent before getting up and leaving as well. He went to his own pavilion and went to the trunk that lay in the corner. After a momentary hesitation, England unlocked the trunk, opened it, and searched through the contents, eventually pulling out his spellbook. Gently closing the trunk again, England then took a seat on his bed and thumbed through the spells.

_What should I do?_


	16. Chapter 16

**Author's Note: Ugh, I am really sorry about that wait. However, I've been working on multiple projects, including a fourth story that I promised over six months ago...**

**Anyway, I hope the wait is worth it. Please enjoy, and I hope to get back to faster updates for you guys.**

* * *

Winter dragged slowly on, the freezing conditions enforcing a prolonged stalemate between Canada's rebels and the combined British and Loyalist armies. France's spying trips into enemy territory were kept brief, few, and far between. During his trips, France kept a sharp eye out for the boy Canada had described, the mysterious new personification that now controlled the South. Yet in his first couple of trips, France never saw the boy. It wasn't until after the new year that he finally found him.

In February 1786, France returned to the British camp, disguised as one of their men. He milled about near the supply wagons, surreptitiously taking inventory of the enemy's supplies while simultaneously keeping an eye out for enemy soldiers. As he did this, a small company of men marched past the supply train. They were led by a small boy.

_Is that the new personification Canada was telling me about? _France thought.

France hid behind a wagon, continuing to watch the soldiers and the boy out of the corner of his eye. After watching and waiting for nearly a minute, France took after them, following at a fast walk. He maintained enough distance from his quarry that even if he was seen, no one would suspect anything. A few times, France had to divert his route slightly, pretending to be on some errand. He came dangerously close to losing sight of the boy, but finally, after tailing them for the better part of an hour, the chase came to an abrupt halt. The boy dismissed his men and retreated into a pavilion.

France approached the pavilion, waiting outside, and listening carefully to what might be happening behind the canvas walls.

For a while, nothing happened. France couldn't hear any sound from within the tent.

However, as France was about to give up and leave, a crimson-clad figure appeared, headed in the direction of France and the tent. As the figure came closer, France quickly realized who this new redcoat arrival was.

France retreated behind a nearby tent and watched out of the corner of his eye as England approached the boy's tent, and subsequently walked inside. Waiting a few seconds to see if anyone else showed up, France then took a few tentative steps back toward the boy's tent. As he had hoped, sounds of conversation between the two nations could now be heard from within that tent. France edged closer to listen in.

"How much longer do I have to wait?" came the petulant voice of the younger nation.

"We can't risk a campaign into enemy territory in the winter," was England's reply. "The weather is not likely to turn favorable for at least another month."

France heard what sounded like a sharp exhalation of air from the boy; even without being able to see his face, it was clear the boy was very frustrated.

"What are your scouts' reports on the rebels' whereabouts?" England continued.

"They've dug in near the border, blocking our path to Philadelphia," the boy replied. "They haven't moved in over a month."

England did not immediately reply, prompting France to inch a little bit closer to the tent, thinking that England might have lowered his voice to the point that he couldn't be heard by anyone outside.

"We could march around them," England said finally.

"How long would that take?" the boy asked. "Would we be able to capture Philadelphia before the rebel army fell on us?"

"If we do attempt to circumnavigate the enemy, we must make sure we can do it undetected," England said. "We would have the greatest advantage to attack the rebels if we were to have already captured Philadelphia. However, even if their scouts don't see us, the civilians will, and are likely to alert the rebel army before we can reach the city."

The thud of a hand slamming on wood sounded from the tent.

"Then what is the point?" the boy demanded. "If they're going to catch us anyway, then maybe we should just march through them first…"

"It's not that simple, Alexander," England said, taking a sterner tone. "They may have inferior numbers, but they've put up a stronger fight than either of us expected. We will definitely engage them at some point, but when we do, we _must_ do so with the advantage."

The boy let out a second exasperated sigh.

"Then where…" he began, but cut himself off.

Silence fell on the tent for over a minute. France took some cautious glances around him, taking note of a couple of officers headed in his direction. He casually stepped away from England's tent, lowering his gaze, trying to look inconspicuous and unimportant. His act worked, as the two men admitted themselves into the tent without so much as one glance in France's direction. After they went in, France went to stand beside the tent again.

He could hear papers being shuffled, but no one inside said anything that France could hear. England occasionally mumbled almost inaudibly to himself, but the boy and the officers seemed to be silent while whoever had the papers continued to rifle through them.

"Thank you. Dismissed," England said finally.

France backed off yet again. The two officers left the tent and headed back in the direction they had come from just a minute earlier.

Before France could move, England followed the men out. He paused just outside the tent entrance, looking pensive. Then, as if something had suddenly occurred to him, England took off at a brisk walk, in the opposite direction his men had gone.

Remaining where he was, France patiently waited to see if the boy was leaving as well. After about a minute, the boy finally emerged from the tent and headed the same direction as his officers. Once the boy was out of sight, France stole one last look around before quickly slipping into the now unoccupied tent.

A table stood in the center, and only a few papers, an inkwell, and a pen lay on its surface. France briefly perused the papers, but quickly realized they were of no significance to his mission. In the back corners of the tent sat a trunk, adjacent to a bundle of supplies. When France tried it, the trunk was locked, and there was no key in sight.

"Probably just his personal effects," France muttered as he turned to leave. "Nothing of use in there."

France followed the route of the two officers from earlier, making his way around into the other sections of the camp. Not much had changed since his last spying trip; the British and Loyalist numbers remained largely the same, and they kept reasonably well-stocked with supplies sent by wagon trains from Charleston and Richmond.

This new Confederation, since openly declaring loyalty to the Crown, had been receiving British aid at their ports with no interference from Canada's rebels. But that wasn't Canada's fault; he had no navy to speak of, and until France's king changed his mind, the French navy would do nothing to stop British trade to the Southern colonies either. That left Spain as the only potential threat to England's navy, but France had heard nothing from the boisterous Spaniard in quite a while. It was unlikely Spain would be of any help.

As things currently appeared, the British trade would continue unimpeded.

Pushing those thoughts aside, France went to the edge of camp to rendezvous with his fellow spies before leaving. As he walked, Alexander appeared in France's peripheral vision, walking very rapidly in France's direction.

France walked faster. One of Canada's spies, already waiting for him at the rendezvous point, signaled the French nation with a small wave. Seconds later, France came to a halt beside the spy. While they struck up a pretended conversation about the war and those 'idiot rebels', France turned slightly, watching Alexander out of the corner of his eye.

The new nation had halted to talk to a British officer. Neither he nor the officer paid any attention to France or his cohort, so France discreetly directed the spy to follow him, and they quietly escaped the camp. They stayed off the road, heading instead into a thick forest, where they met another one of Canada's spies.

The spy handed France and his comrade each a change of civilian clothes, and they hurriedly changed. Taking the British uniforms from them, the other spy then packed the uniforms into a knapsack, slung it over his shoulder, and led the way through the forest. They kept to the cover of the forest as far as they could, which resulted in a longer, less straightforward route back to Canada's camp. When they arrived back in the camp, France immediately went to see Canada.

He found the younger nation doing field drills with a company of Hamilton's men.

As soon as Canada noticed France waiting on the side of the field, he grabbed a junior officer, placing him in charge of the men, and promptly left the field. Canada waved at the elder nation as he approached, and the two began walking slowly away from the field, towards the rows of tents. They stopped right in front of a tent at the end of the row, right next to the field.

"Has anything changed?" Canada asked.

"Not really," France replied.

Canada merely grunted in response and looked away, back to the men still drilling on the field.

"He still plans on capturing Philadelphia," France continued. "But the British armies can't move until spring. They know we're blocking their path, and I overheard England say he may try to march around us."

A frown flashed on Canada's face for a fraction of a second. He shifted on his feet and looked back at France, folding his arms across his chest. Though he tried to keep his expression neutral, a tiny hint of confusion was still written on his brow.

"What if we took the initiative and tried to drive them out of Maryland before they pushed north?" he asked.

France winced.

"That's risky," he said. "England still outmatches our force…"

"A defensive battle in our condition is just as risky," Canada protested, albeit weakly.

"There's risk involved no matter what you do, but in this case, a defensive battle would be the much safer route," France said.

Canada lowered his gaze to the ground, looking thoughtful. France patiently waited for a response, but the expression on Canada's face clearly indicated that the younger nation's attention was focused inward, doubtlessly reviewing and weighing his options. He did not lift his gaze for over a minute, yet France remained standing there, almost motionless, while he waited on his former colony.

"Hopefully, I'll be getting reinforcements from Quebec," Canada said, his voice just barely above a whisper.

France frowned.

"How will that help? Will they be here before spring?"

"They should be," Canada replied. "They will help us defend Philadelphia."

"And what if they don't arrive in time?"

A long and uncomfortable pause followed.

"We'll retreat."

"Where?"

"Philadelphia."

France looked curiously at Canada. His voice contained a determined undertone, which struck France as odd, considering Canada's usually quiet, unassuming demeanor. Canada's eyes also flickered with a fury and resolve even more unnatural to the young colony. In fact, France better remembered that look in someone else's eyes. America's eyes, to be specific.

France caught himself doing a double take at Canada. For a fraction of a second, Canada's eyes had appeared the same cornflower blue.

Maybe it was the angle of the sunlight on his face, or maybe the expression had borne a little too strong of a resemblance to Alfred's, but in that brief fraction of time, France actually thought he saw America, and not Canada, standing there. But, in the next second, Canada turned his head slightly, blinked, and looked at France. The moment was gone.

"_Merde,_" France muttered under his breath, suddenly avoiding Canada's gaze. _They're twins, of course one would like the other…_

Despite his attempts at rationalization, the uneasy feeling in France's stomach would not go away. He returned his attention to Canada. That cornflower tint in his eyes was still there, albeit diminished. Now, the blue mingled with the lavender, almost as if the two colors were fighting for dominance.

"Papa?" Canada asked.

"Yes?"

"Is something wrong?"

"…No." France silently cursed himself, and prayed Canada had not noticed his slight hesitation.

**(-)**

The days seemed to drag on more and more as spring approached. With each passing day, Canada would inquire about possible reinforcements, only to be disappointed every time he asked. As far as anyone in this part of the army knew, no one had any idea where the reinforcements were, or when they would arrive.

The wait for reinforcements as well as the wait for fairer weather wore on Canada's nerves. He increasingly busied himself with training his men, and when he wasn't out marching them, or practicing marksmanship on the range, he was in the general's tent, drawing up strategy with France and General Hamilton. Often, he forgot meals and sleep in his grueling regimen, to the point where he nearly collapsed on the way to a strategy meeting.

France caught him by the shoulders, steadying him and helping him back up.

"Mathieu, you can barely stand!" France said. "You should go back to your tent and rest."

Canada gripped France's arms tightly, but his grip quickly weakened. He tried to steady himself, but even as he fought to stand, he had to fight just as hard to keep his eyes open.

"Hamilton said…"

"I will talk to Hamilton," France said. "Come."

Without waiting for a reply, France began walking Canada back to his tent. Upon reaching the tent, Canada all but collapsed onto his makeshift bed. France took a moment to rummage through Canada's supplies. He produced Canada's canteen and tossed it to him, and Canada took a long drink before laying back down.

"Get some rest," France said.

He dismissed himself, leaving Canada alone in the tent. Canada spent a few minutes staring at the canvas walls of his tent before exhaustion completely overtook him, and he fell asleep.

As he slept, a familiar nightmare played itself out in his dreams. It was the same nightmare he'd had after the victory at West Point. It had reasserted itself in Canada's dreams only every once in a while, at irregular intervals, but it played out the same way every time.

It was pitch black. Unable to see himself, Canada had the vague feeling that he was lying on his back, unable to move. Try as he might, his body simply would not respond to any of his commands. As he lay there, a voice cried out.

A voice that sounded unmistakably like America.

"_Get up! Please!_"

It was always those three words, every single time. America's voice always sounded so absolutely terrified and distraught that it spurred Canada even harder to try to move, or speak, or just do _something_ to console his brother, but in the scant two seconds that remained of the dream, Canada was still just as powerless to move as at the dream's beginning. And, just like the last time this dream had visited him, Canada awoke crying, and in a cold sweat.

"Alfred!"

Canada rolled off his blanket and onto the cool grass, rubbing tears and sweat off his face. He looked around frantically trying to find his brother, only for reality to set back in a second later. Canada shook his head, blinking back tears, and did not move for several minutes.

He jolted back to reality when one of the officers pulled back the tent flap and looked curiously inside.

"General Williams?" the man asked. "Are you coming to dinner?"

"Oh, um, yes," Canada said. "I'll be out there shortly. I need a few minutes…"

The officer nodded and left, allowing the tent flap to fall shut.

Like Canada had told the officer, he waited several minutes before getting up and leaving the tent. However, during those few minutes, he merely sat on the grass, staring at the wall. When he gave up, he rose slowly and left.

He ate dinner without exchanging a single word with anyone. As soon as he was finished, he quickly and silently returned to his tent, where he collapsed on the ground and spent the rest of the night in fitful sleep.

**(-)**

The British army went on the march in early April. Thanks to France's spying efforts, Hamilton and Canada were able to move their men and keep up with the enemy's movements. As France had warned, England tried marching the army around the rebel force, taking a longer and slower route to Philadelphia in hopes of avoiding detection. Hamilton gave the order to march, withdrawing his rebels closer to the city. Canada took the bulk of the army east, waiting to intercept the British at the border.

A scout's report informed Canada that the British army was just a few miles to the south, and headed in the rebel army's direction. Within hours, the two armies would run into each other. A confrontation was inevitable.

Canada ordered the men to break camp and take up well hidden defensive positions in a hilly, forested area nearby the road. Knowing his largely untrained militia stood little chance in a direct confrontation, he hid the men in the cover of trees, rocks, and underbrush. The men's hiding places were also scattered over a wide area on both sides of the road. The British would be almost completely surrounded, and would not know of the trap until it was too late.

Hamilton's men waited further down the road, and would have to serve as Canada's only reinforcements. There had still been no word from the militias promised from the far northern colonies. Prussia and Lafayette had sent no word either.

Canada shifted slightly in his precarious position on the branch of a large tree near the road, biting his lip nervously. He loaded America's rifle, then held the weapon close while he waited for England's army. When he wasn't looking down the road for a sign of the enemy, he stared at the weapon, and the initials inscribed on the grip.

A few hours later, the British army finally came into view, marching towards the hidden rebel army from the southern horizon. Canada sat upright, readied his rifle, and signaled his men.

Tree branches shook, and leaves rustled as men shifted their positions, readying their weapons in preparation for the coming battle. This last-minute shuffle took only a few minutes, and once every last rebel found himself in the perfect spot, the forest fell eerily silent. During this time, the British had not made it very far up the road.

Canada watched the British approach with growing apprehension. The vanguard came steadily closer and closer to the edge of the forest, yet the columns behind them didn't seem to end; more troops just kept appearing on the horizon. Chances of victory seemed to dwindle with each passing second, and the battle hadn't even started yet.

Nevertheless, Canada remained in place. He moved slowly and deliberately so as not to disturb the tree branches and give away his position. Lifting America's rifle, he took aim at one of the officers riding at the forefront of the approaching army, but did not fire. Instead, he waited. Tracking the officer as the army entered the forest, Canada deliberately held his fire until he was certain the British were far enough into the trap that they could not escape. If he and his rebels could do enough damage in a swift and decisive surprise strike to the vanguard, there was a small chance the rest of the army would try to go around rather than risk a slaughter. After all, the British had no way of knowing the rebel strength hiding in these trees.

_A quick strike, and then we'll have to fall back and rejoin Hamilton's division,_ he thought.

The British vanguard entered the forest. Canada waited just a few more seconds, then his patience wore out.

He fired.


	17. Chapter 17

**Author's Note: I apologize, guys. I just can't seem to maintain my prior pace. Hopefully, the updates are worth the wait.**

* * *

No one needed to give an order to fire. A split second after Canada's shot hit its mark, dozens of gunshots sounded from Canada's side of the road, and the British vanguard fell apart. The first strike went even better than Canada had hoped; more than thirty British soldiers had fallen, either dead or wounded. The rest, still reeling from shock and unable to locate their enemy, panicked, and the neatly ordered marching columns dissolved into a chaotic mess.

Men did not bother to wait for orders from their officers. Many frantically attempted to load their muskets while simultaneously glancing every which way, trying to find the rebels.

Seconds later, more gunshots sounded, but from the opposite side of the road. Two volleys, fired in quick succession by an unseen enemy had by now completely thrown the British vanguard into disorder. While the British soldiers reeled from the second volley, the half of the army on Canada's side of the road prepared to fire again.

Canada loaded as quickly as possible, not wanting to allow the British enough time between volleys to recover and counterattack. What he forgot to take into account was the British army's discipline; after Canada fired his second shot, the officers still standing were already starting to regain control of their men.

Canada cursed under his breath.

_We'll have to fall back after the next round,_ he thought.

The other half of his army fired their second volley, and some of the British officers fell. For a split second, the British lines seemed on the verge of collapsing again, but the soldiers reformed ranks quickly. A few men scattered through the ranks pointed up at the trees where the rebels were hiding. They shouted to their comrades, alerting them to their enemy's positions.

"They're in the trees! Bring them down!"

British muskets were aimed upward, and the men fired. Canada bit his lip with apprehension as he watched a few of his men fall screaming from the trees. With only a split second to make up his mind, Canada slung America's rifle over his shoulder, then reached for the knife sheathed on his belt.

"Fall back!" he shouted.

Canada jumped down from his tree branch, landing squarely on the shoulders of a British soldier. He reached down, and with one fluid motion, slit the man's throat.

More rebels came down from the trees. Some, like Canada, had either switched from rifle to knife, or, for those with muskets, had fixed bayonets and fought fiercely in hand to hand combat. Many, however, simply fled further into the woods.

Yet another volley came out of the trees, but in a much smaller number, and from further within the woods; rebels whose positions were still far enough away from the British vanguard were keeping up the gunfire in order to support the men on the ground. These men were the sharpshooters – Canada had deliberately placed them further back, as they could continue to support, while their deadly aim helped reduce the risk of accidental friendly fire. However, as the fighting grew increasingly chaotic, and more of the British army rushed forward to assist the vanguard, Canada knew he would have to order everyone to withdraw.

Canada disarmed another British soldier, then bayonetted him in the chest with his own weapon. He roughly shoved a few more out of the way as he ran northward into the forest.

"Retreat!" he shouted, waving for his men to follow.

Canada's men surged northward, a few running backwards while they took a final shot at the British ranks. The rest of the rebels still in the trees came down, following their comrades in a disorganized flight through the woods. They began to split up and disperse through the underbrush, giving the deceptive appearance that the battle had turned into a rout. Behind them, the British soldiers continued to pursue, shouting in premature triumph.

_Come on, Hamilton; your men can't be far…_

Somewhere ahead in the woods, muffled, distant shouting could just barely be heard under the shouts of the British army behind Canada and his men. Canada ran faster, shouting encouragement to his men. Those distant shouts undoubtedly belonged to Hamilton's force, and the sooner Canada could merge his forces with Hamilton's, the sooner they could go back on the offensive.

Canada reached the top of a small hill and darted behind a tree, pausing just long enough to get a look at the situation. The British were still in pursuit, though their men still stayed fairly close to each other, whereas Canada's men had spread out across the woods in their flight. Glancing ahead, a handful of silhouettes moved about in the brush and thickets. A glint of sunlight reflected off the flint lock of a musket somewhere in those thickets.

Canada took off running towards the thickets. It took less than thirty seconds for him to cover the remaining distance, and as he hid behind another tree, shots rang out from all around him, followed immediately by cries of pain from the British behind him.

"Get down!" someone called out from somewhere to Canada's left.

Before Canada could respond, the owner of the voice emerged from the bush to Canada's left, and pulled him down. By reflex, Canada seized the person's arm and tried to resist, but stopped when he recognized the man as one of his own rebels. He knelt down and hid with the soldier behind the bush.

The British opened fire a second later, several of their shots flying directly over Canada's head. Canada stayed as low to the ground as possible, ignoring the shots overhead while he loaded his own weapon. Beside him, the rebel soldier reloaded his own musket.

Canada finished loading, and got up on his knees, peering over the top of the bush. Most of his men had disappeared into the woods, and the pursuing British soldiers had slowed down, unable to find their targets.

"Onward, men! Keep going!" England's voice called out from somewhere further back in the forest.

A wave of red appeared at the bottom of the hill. The rest of the British army had followed the vanguard, and had finally arrived. Canada swallowed hard, lifted his weapon, and aimed down the hill.

"Fire!" yelled one of the British officers, and a volley of musket fire tore through the brush. A few scattered screams from wounded rebels immediately followed.

Canada and the rebel beside him fired together, and their shots were accompanied a split second later by a smattering of gunfire from fellow rebels. While Canada sat down and reloaded, at the bottom of the hill, England shouted out the order to fix bayonets.

_Hamilton, where are you…_

Another volley of rebel musket fire tore through the trees, but this one sounded much larger than the one that had preceded it. Canada paused in the middle of reloading to look behind him. Was this a signal of much-needed reinforcements? Had Hamilton finally arrived?

Shouts and screams from the advancing British soldiers quickly brought Canada's attention back to the task at hand, however. He lifted the rifle again and fired. Without even looking to see if he had hit his mark, Canada then switched weapons. The British were almost upon him; he needed a weapon better suited for close combat.

With knife in hand, Canada crouched, still hidden behind the bush, and waited for the first British soldier to come in range. Seconds later, that moment arrived. A soldier stepped around one side of the bush, bayonet pointed directly in front of him, leaving his side exposed. Canada seized the opportunity and leapt toward the soldier, burying his knife up to the hilt in the man's side. The soldier let out a strangled cry, stumbling awkwardly forward while he swung his musket to the side, striking Canada on the head.

Unfazed by the blow, Canada reached for his enemy's musket with his left hand, and pulled his knife out of the man's side with his right. To Canada's surprise, his enemy stayed on his feet. Not only that, he pressed his attack. He kicked Canada in the shin and pulled his musket out of Canada's reach, then took a step backward. A split second later, he lunged forward, bayonet pointed at Canada's chest.

Canada dropped his knife in favor of seizing the barrel of the musket. Shoving the weapon violently aside, Canada tackled the man, but was surprised again when the man kept upright despite Canada throwing his full strength into the attack. He looked up, and the two men locked gazes.

"_England…_" Canada growled. Now he knew why his opponent had managed to put up such a fight.

England said nothing, but seized Canada's shoulders and pivoted, then slammed Canada into the tree next to him. Canada stumbled away from England and the tree, scanning the muddy ground for his knife. Unable to find it, he unslung America's rifle from his back and swung at England, but England blocked the blow with his own musket. He then stepped forward, shoving the rifle aside, then lifted his musket and aimed right at Canada's heart.

The bayonet hovered mere inches away from Canada's chest. Canada stared down the barrel, his heart beating so hard and fast it felt like it would burst.

_I've failed…_

But England never pulled the trigger. For a few tense seconds, he stood absolutely still, but as he looked Canada right in the eye, a look of abject horror filled the elder nation's eyes, and he promptly dropped his weapon, while his arms fell and hung uselessly at his sides.

"No…" he said weakly. "I can't…"

He fell to his knees, and the only look on his face was that of physical pain. One hand flew to cover the knife wound in his side, which had been bleeding profusely during the fight. He groaned weakly as he pressed down on the wound in an attempt to stanch the bleeding.

Canada stared down at the wounded England, at a loss for words.

Scattered gunfire sounded throughout the forest, accompanied by the rebels' triumphant shouts. The British soldiers that had not been wounded, captured, or killed turned and fled. Canada took his eyes off England, watching as hundreds of rebels sprinted down the hill in pursuit of the fleeing British.

Shock gave way to elation as the realization sank in. Hamilton's reinforcements had arrived. The tide of the battle had turned.

_We've routed them… I've won…_ Canada thought.

However, he did not follow his men down the hill. Instead, he knelt down and picked up the musket England dropped, tossing it well out of the Englishman's reach. England looked up, briefly distracted from his wound by Canada's sudden movement, but made no attempt to stop him. Canada then looked at his own weapon, staring at it as if trying to decide what to do.

"Don't waste your bullet."

Canada's head snapped up at the sound of England's voice. He looked curiously at the elder nation, who was now struggling to his feet.

"What do you mean?" Canada demanded, tightening his grip on the rifle and stepping backward, out of England's reach.

A handful of Canadian rebels ran over to join Canada. Whatever England was about to say, he quickly decided to keep to himself, as the soldiers all raised their muskets, ready to shoot him if necessary. England put his hands up in surrender, wincing as he lifted the pressure from his wound.

"Bind his wound," Canada commanded his men. "Then take him back to camp."

The men immediately went to their task, but Canada pulled one aside.

"I need to find General Hamilton," he said. "Do you know where he is?"

"With the main force, I think," the soldier replied. "At the bottom of the hill."

"Thank you."

With that, Canada headed off into the woods.

Meanwhile, the soldiers whom Canada had charged with England's care forced their captive to sit down while they treated his wound. England silently complied, staring intently at the ground, lost in thought.

_I stopped myself this time, but what if a situation like this happens again? _

In his mind's eye, England suddenly saw himself back at West Point. The memory of the sound of his own musket firing, followed by America's scream, echoed painfully in his head. He began to shake noticeably.

One of the soldiers finished tying the bandages, and he helped England back onto his feet. He shoved England forward, and the men began escorting the British nation in the direction of the rebel camp. The whole time they walked, England kept his head lowered.

_And what about Alexander? Would he shoot Canada if he were given the chance?_

The thought tortured him for the remainder of the walk to the rebel camp. His only relief came when he was finally taken to a tent where he would be held under guard as a prisoner; there, he fell asleep.

**(-)**

By nightfall, Canada, Hamilton, and their armies had all returned to camp just a few miles outside Philadelphia. Canada skipped supper that evening, and instead sat alone, brooding, and assessing his losses.

Neither side had expected the battle to be on quite the scale that it had. Casualties totaled to over a thousand, with hundreds dead, and hundreds more either wounded or missing. But Canada consoled himself with the fact that the day's battle, despite its bloody cost, had proved a decisive victory.

The British forces in the South had been crippled; British losses in that forest were nearly double that of the rebel losses. Wherever the Loyalist army was, they were now without support from their British allies. The enemy's advance had finally been stopped.

_But that's not enough,_ Canada thought. _Now I need to turn them around, and take those colonies back._

He would have to press his advantage now, while he still had the momentum. Several possible strategies occurred to him, which he would bring up with General Hamilton later. However, one thing kept popping up in his thoughts over and over.

England was now his prisoner.

_I could use him as leverage,_ Canada thought. _But what for? I can't force a British surrender just because I captured their personification…_

That would be another question to bring up with General Hamilton. With nothing else to do at the moment, Canada settled down onto his makeshift bed and drifted off to sleep.

Mercifully, that familiar nightmare of his brother's anguished cries did not visit him that night. In fact, for the first time in weeks, Canada had a full night of restful, uninterrupted, dreamless sleep.

That morning, immediately after breakfast, Canada went to see Hamilton. France joined the meeting as well. The three of them sat around a small table in Hamilton's pavilion to discuss the army's next move.

"Are we going to press our advantage and pursue the British further south?" Canada asked.

"My scouts have not yet returned with any information on the location of the Tory militia," Hamilton replied. "After yesterday's losses, we cannot afford to fall into an ambush. And those reinforcements from Quebec that we were promised still have not arrived."

Canada's face fell. "We won't pursue?"

Hamilton shook his head. "I'm not going to lose what advantage we've got just because we're a little shorthanded," he said. "Nor do we need to rely so strongly on those reinforcements. We're going to enlist help from elsewhere."

"What do you mean?" France asked.

"There's a good chance that the same Iroquois tribes that fought on our side in the last war will be willing to side with us again," Hamilton said. "And, now that the Canadian colonies have joined the rebellion, many of the native tribes from those areas may be willing to help."

"But the British have been arming the natives; if anything, wouldn't they side against us?" Canada asked.

"Not all of them," France pointed out. "We still have a lot of potential allies on this continent."

"And not necessarily just this one," Hamilton added. "The successes we've had both here and at West Point may yet change some minds in Europe."

Canada's eyes lit up at that. He flashed a brief expectant look over at France, to which France responded with a tiny shrug.

"What have we heard from our ambassadors to France?" Canada asked Hamilton.

"Nothing yet," Hamilton said. "They won't hear of this for several weeks, and then we won't hear if the news has changed anything in Europe for some time after that. In the meantime, we must see to our immediate problem: maintaining our advantage with the small force we have."

Canada tapped his finger impatiently on the table.

"And until we hear from the scouts…"

Hamilton stood up, indicating the meeting was over.

"I will call for you when they return," he said, and then left the tent.

Canada and France remained seated. The tent was silent for a moment as each nation silently mulled over everything that had happened.

"Will your king change his mind?" Canada asked quietly.

France rubbed his temples and sighed heavily.

"I don't know," he said. "America's first major victory was at Saratoga. It was enough of a victory to convince King Louis to believe the Americans had a chance, and deserved French support."

Canada frowned.

"I know that," he said. "What does that have to do with…?"

"West Point was your Saratoga," France continued. "It looks promising now, but then, it also looked good for America back then. I fear we may need a bigger victory to convince my king that history won't repeat itself."

_But if I could do that, I wouldn't need French help in the first place,_ Canada thought. _I'd have to win the entire war before anyone decided to help me, and by then, I would no longer need them… but, as things stand now, I can't win without help…_

Canada's hands slid off the table surface, balling into fists as they rested on his lap. He bit his lip, fighting back the urge to cry in his frustration. All he could do was hope that France would be proven wrong. And it would be months before he could know either way.

"I see," Canada whispered so softly that France almost didn't hear it.

He slowly rose from his chair and left.


	18. Chapter 18

England awoke the next morning and silently ate the meager rations provided for him, then backed up into the corner of the tent, where he sat and stared at the canvas wall opposite him. His wound throbbed with pain, prompting him to press a hand on the bloodstained bandaging.

The bleeding had long since stopped. But that wasn't the problem.

Any severe injury, even if inflicted by an ordinary human, would still hurt for days afterward, but even so, that wound would heal much faster than if it had been inflicted by a fellow nation.

England clenched his teeth, hissing in pain. He pressed down harder on the wound.

_This could take weeks to completely heal,_ he thought. _Meanwhile, I'm stuck here as a prisoner of war…_

After letting out a string of curses under his breath, England lay down, biting his lip to stop himself from crying out in pain. He squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the throbbing in his side to stop. He ended up lying there, motionless, for nearly an hour.

While it did not stop completely, the pain in England's side did finally decrease to a more tolerable level. England sat up, lifting his hands from his side. No longer distracted by the pain, the British nation's thoughts wandered elsewhere. Slowly and gradually, the true enormity of his situation dawned on him.

_Even if Canada releases me, I won't recover from this wound for a while,_ England thought. _I can't do anything…_

One way or another, he would not be able to fight with his men. Though, as he thought about it, that could be considered a blessing, in a twisted sort of way.

_I pose no threat to Canada in this state. I can't accidentally shoot him…_

England smacked himself on the side of the head.

_I'm starting to sound like I want to lose this war,_ he thought with annoyance. _There has to be another way… I can't lose the war, but I can't lose Canada either. I need to get out of here, and do something… but what?_

For a while, he kept drawing a blank. However, as he sat there, other, more disturbing notions intruded on his thoughts. His own condition, and any action on his part could still ultimately prove to be useless, if another factor interfered.

Alexander.

The Loyalist army was on its way to Philadelphia, and Alexander was marching with them. If his army encountered Canada's, the two nations would almost certainly meet on the battlefield.

The thought that had tormented England since his capture yesterday reasserted itself with a vengeance: would Alexander try to kill Canada if given the chance?

_Even if he doesn't, what if he shoots him by accident?_ England thought.

He choked at the thought. It would be a repeat of West Point, just with a different hand behind the trigger.

"Damn it…" he said weakly.

He took several deep breaths in an effort to calm himself down. However, a familiar-sounding voice from somewhere outside the tent distracted him, and he sat bolt upright, listening intently for the voice to speak again.

"Yes, monsieur. I know," the voice said.

England recognized the distinctive voice and accent immediately, and his hands clenched into fists.

_What the hell is that damn frog doing here? I thought France was still neutral!_

The tent flap was suddenly yanked back, allowing sunlight to flood the inside of the tent. England rose abruptly to his feet, resting a hand over his wound, and making absolutely no effort to hide his disgust at the sight that greeted him.

The French nation himself stood at the entrance, still holding the tent flap. Just two paces behind him stood a pair of rebel soldiers, their whole stance visibly tense, as if they were about to lift their muskets and fire at any second. France, on the other hand, looked relatively placid.

France gave a small nod to the soldiers, and they relaxed, but only slightly. France walked into the tent, allowing the flap to fall shut behind him. England continued to glare at his fellow nation, but after a tense pause, finally spoke.

"What are you doing here?" he demanded softly. "The Kingdom of France has made no alliance with the rebel colonies; what the hell do you think you're playing at?"

"I can visit my former brother without needing an alliance to do so," France said indignantly.

A muscle jerked in England's cheek.

"You're just visiting him," he said sarcastically. "Stop lying, frog. Why are you really here?"

France took a few slow steps back and forth, looking away from England as he paced.

"Because," he began, his voice strangely hesitant all of a sudden. "I heard my former brother had gotten himself into a war. I wanted to see how he was doing, and if there was anything I could do."

England snorted. "There is nothing you can do," he said. "Your government has said nothing about an alliance with these rebellious British colonies; this war is none of your concern!"

France's pacing stopped. He looked England squarely in the eye.

"_Au contraire, mon ami,_" he said. "Mathieu is my brother –"

"And mine as well!" England snapped. "And he has been a _British_ colony for more than twenty years. Not only that, but as I recall, you _gave_ him to me, so you have no right to –"

France gave a dismissive wave of his hand.

"I know that the treaties all say he is your brother, and your colony," he said. "But, have you forgotten how human we nations truly are? Have you forgotten the strength of the bonds we form, and how painful and _personal_ it is when those bonds are shattered by war?"

England winced. He bit his lip and blinked back tears, and it took noticeable effort for him to maintain his glare. But France wasn't done.

"I did not come here as France, to see his former colony of Canada," France said. "But as Francis, to see his brother Mathieu."

"Well, you might have noticed that Matthew is not in this tent; I am," England responded, his voice dripping with anger and sarcasm. "So what do you want?"

"Mathieu told me you had been captured," France said. "So, I thought I'd have a word with you before the army went on the move again."

"To mock me?"

France shook his head, and let out a weak and mirthless laugh.

"If only that were the reason," he said. "No, there's a far more pressing concern."

England folded his arms.

"What?" he asked.

"Canada tells me there's a new personification in the colonies," France replied. He shifted on his feet, almost as if to start pacing again.

England narrowed his eyes, but made no comment. Instead, he quietly waited for France to continue.

"I don't know what exactly what was in the details of your postwar agreements with the colonies," France went on. "But I thought they would have contained some kind of… um… stipulation on Canada's personification status in relation to the colonies in British North America."

England blinked. Though he fought to not show any outward signs of alarm, his heart nevertheless began pounding at France's words.

_There's no way he could know about that contract,_ he thought desperately. _Canada wouldn't have told him about that, would he?_

"Get to the point," England said. "What does any of this have to do with you, and why you're here?"

France paused, staring grimly at the ground.

"Who is the new personification, and where did he come from?" he asked.

"That's none of your concern," England said coldly.

France sighed heavily.

"He's involved in this war, isn't he?" he said.

"A war that is none of your business," England shot back.

"Oh, for God's sake, Angleterre," France said. "You should know by now that these colonies have been seeking European assistance for quite some time. You don't know if their victory the other day may convince my king – or someone else's – to enter an alliance with them. That makes this war very much my business."

A tense pause followed.

"You still haven't answered my question," France went on. "Where did the new personification come from?"

England exhaled sharply, and his expression suddenly looked pained.

"The only explanation I can think of," he began slowly, as if every word had to be forced. "Is that Canada has not been properly adjusting himself as a personification to the social temperament of his people, and therefore lost his ability to personify them."

"My God…"

France's face fell.

_Wasn't that the reason behind America's death?_ he thought. _And now, Canada's attempt at independence is going to do the same thing to him… _

"Angleterre, you know what happens to nations that lose personification status," he said, his tone suddenly tinged with worry and fear.

"Shut up! I know, damn it!" England's voice dropped to a whisper, and he choked slightly on the words.

Now both nations fought back tears. France took a step backward and lowered his gaze, while England turned to face away from the Frenchman, putting a hand over his mouth. At the same time, England's wound began to throb again, and his other hand pressed down on his bandages.

_Canada should never have lost personification of any of the colonies to begin with,_ England thought. _When he signed that contract, he took permanent and complete personification of every British colony on this continent… but since he destroyed it… Oh God, no…_

"Ang – Arthur…" France said, lifting his gaze and regarding England with a worried expression.

England lowered his hands, turning to face France again.

"Don't use that name with me," he growled.

"Is the same thing happening to Canada right now that happened to America six years ago?" France asked. "Look at what this war has been doing to him – there's even a new personification here to replace him if he…"

France couldn't even finish the sentence. Not that he needed to; the expression on England's face showed clear and painful understanding.

"Damn it, I know!" England snapped. "But what do you expect me to do? The country I represent will not stop prosecuting this war until it is won, and, as its personification, I must act accordingly, my own feelings and desires be damned. You, of all people, should know what that's like."

France was about to reply, but was interrupted by the tent flap being pulled back. Both nations turned sharply to look at the new arrival.

Canada stood just outside the tent, still holding the tent flap in his right hand. His left arm hung limply at his side, the sleeve soaked in blood. For several seconds, he just stood like that, staring at England. The two nations locked gazes briefly, and while Canada's eyes were narrowed in a glare, England's eyes were wide with fear.

_What is wrong with his eyes?_ England thought. _I thought they were purple…_

Canada's mouth twitched as if he had something to say, but he apparently decided against it, because he wordlessly turned away from England, looking instead at France.

"We're moving out," he said, jerking his head to indicate for France to follow him. He then promptly dropped the tent flap and left without bothering to wait for a reply.

France held his hands up in confusion. He looked pleadingly at England, but the British nation stared in shocked silence at the spot where Canada had been standing just seconds ago. At a loss for any alternative, France hurriedly left the tent, headed the same direction Canada went.

Right after France left, England retreated to the corner of the tent and sat back down. He put both hands on the top of his head, and began pulling his hair while muttering a string of curses under his breath. Now that he was alone, tears streamed freely down his face.

As he sat there, he gradually lost track of time. Later, long after the sounds of activity and men's voices outside the tent had died down, signaling that most of the army had moved out, England finally calmed down enough to collect his thoughts. Numerous ideas briefly danced around in his head, but none of them yielded any feasible long-term plan. After a while, one thing did finally cement itself in his mind.

He needed to try the time travel spell one last time.

It was a long shot, and probably would not be of much help even if it worked. But even that was better than the alternatives.

_My spellbook is still in that trunk,_ he thought. _I can find it as soon as I can return to my own camp._

**(-)**

The rebel army organized and went on the march in less than twenty minutes. However, while France was sent with one regiment, Canada disappeared, presumably to march with some other unit. From what France overheard from snippets of conversation among the men, the enemy still had not been found, but rather General Hamilton had simply given the order to press further south.

When the army halted their march that night, France wandered the camp in search of Canada, but still, the young nation was nowhere to be found. He asked the various regimental commanders if they had seen General Williams anywhere, and eventually, had to ask Hamilton himself.

Hamilton invited France to sit down at the table in his pavilion before answering the question.

"He had been muttering something about a prisoner exchange before we moved out," Hamilton began. "He also said he needed to interrogate the enemy commander we captured. I believe the man's name is General Arthur Kirkland."

France nodded, but still looked confused.

"Does that mean he's not marching with us?" he asked.

"I don't know," Hamilton replied. "General Williams comes and goes as he pleases. But if he's planning on a prisoner exchange, he'll have to join us eventually, and bring the Redcoat prisoners with him."

The tent fell silent as Hamilton stared intently at the tabletop, arms folded, and a brooding expression on his face.

"You said you were his adoptive brother, correct?" Hamilton asked suddenly.

France frowned, caught off guard by Hamilton's question.

"Yes," he replied, though somewhat hesitantly.

"So you knew his brother, Alfred?"

"Yes… why?"

Hamilton shrugged, but the thoughtful frown remained.

"I don't know," he said, at barely above a whisper. "Something's been bothering me about General Williams, and I can't seem to lay my finger on it…"

"What do you mean?"

"I met Alfred eleven years ago," Hamilton said. "And he looked very much like how Matthew does now; so much so that, three years ago, I even mistook Matthew for Alfred the first time I met him."

France gave an unhelpful shrug. Hamilton frowned and shook his head.

"Never mind," he said. "They're brothers; that's bound to happen, right?"

"I suppose," France said.

There was an awkward pause. France took the opportunity to quietly dismiss himself, his earlier question having been answered.

"I'll just talk to him myself later," Hamilton added under his breath after France had gone. "Something's not adding up…"

**(-)**

Most of Hamilton's army pressed south that afternoon, but one division, left under the command of one of Hamilton's subordinates, held its position just outside Philadelphia.

Instead of moving out with the main army, Canada returned to his tent and changed clothes. He tore off his bloodstained coat and undershirt and quickly tied some bandaging over the gash that had opened in his left shoulder. His bloodied clothes then lay forgotten on the ground while Canada pulled on a clean shirt.

_I'm being attacked on multiple fronts,_ he thought. _I really hope Lafayette and Prussia can hold the British back without Hamilton's support._

He glanced around the tent, looking for a clean coat, but there wasn't one. Picking up the bloodstained coat, Canada looked it over, thinking.

The coat already had multiple holes, powder burns, and bloodstains from previous battles. In fact, it was nearing the point of becoming unwearable, it had taken so much damage. And the undershirt was in even worse condition. Canada glanced around his tent to see if he had a spare coat, but he did not.

_I'll need to find a new one, _he thought. _However, that can wait a bit. Now, where is that paper…?_

Depositing the old, damaged clothing on the back of the chair that sat in the corner of the tent, Canada then went rummaging through the tiny desk next to the chair. He eventually found a dispatch, sent from the president of the Third Continental Congress. The dispatch had arrived early that morning, and now that Canada finally had a few minutes of spare time, he opened it and read it, taking a seat on the chair as he did so.

He did several double takes at some of the things he saw in the dispatch, and, when he finished, sat and stared at the tent wall in stunned silence.

_Finally… the colonies of Canada and British America have officially united… _

Suddenly, his words to the Loyalist boy from their last battle echoed back to him in his mind.

"_I used to be Canada, but I'm not that either. Not anymore…"_

"_Then what are you?"_

"_A new nation…"_

"A new nation," he repeated aloud.

He let out a long sigh and leaned back in the chair. He remained in that position for several minutes. Eventually, he did finally put the dispatch in his pocket and get up.

_Now, I still need a new coat…_

He left the tent to look for the quartermaster.

Predictably, the quartermaster turned out to be woefully undersupplied in practically everything. However, after a while spent searching, he managed to find an old threadbare coat that looked like it might have been left over from the last war. It was all the quartermaster could find, so the young nation went ahead and took the faded blue uniform from him, throwing it on as he left.

With that done, he headed over to the tent where England was being held. He let himself inside, making very little noise, but nevertheless startled England out of a light nap, and England sprung somewhat awkwardly to his feet.

After the initial shock, England tried to forcibly calm himself down, but it proved difficult to hide his alarm at the sight that greeted him.

At first, all he saw was the blue uniform, unruly blond hair, and cornflower eyes. For a fraction of a second, he did not see Canada at all. Rather, it was America he thought he saw standing before him.

"England."

Reality came back with a vengeance. Canada's voice, at least, still held its original quality, and not mysteriously morphing into that of his brother's. Although, as England locked gazes with the younger nation, he wondered how long that would last.

_Why is this happening to him, anyway?_

"What?" England said, and he flinched at how weak his own voice suddenly sounded.

"If I were to release you back to your men, what would General Clinton be willing to give us in exchange?"

England blinked. _God, this is like what happened after I captured America, but with the roles reversed,_ he thought.

"I don't know; what is it you want?" he asked.

"I would prefer it that he immediately withdrew all British forces – and their allies – out of the Maryland colony," was the blunt reply.

England nearly laughed, but quickly disguised it as a cough.

"That's not going to happen," he said.

"Then General Hamilton will drive them out by force."

England's eyes went wide.

"Canada, have you lost your mind?" he said incredulously. "You may have won that last battle, but your army is still not –"

"Don't call me that."

"What?"

"I am not Canada anymore."

England shook his head.

"What do you mean?" he asked, verging on panic, and trying desperately not to show it in his voice. He looked Canada directly in the eye. "_What is happening to you?_"

Canada reached into his pants pocket and withdrew the Congressional dispatch.

"You gave me America's colonies, along with the colony I already represented in Canada," he said. "Did you think that wouldn't affect me as a personification? How can I continue to call myself Canada when that is only a small portion of what I truly am as a nation?"

"You're not America," England said. "You can't have changed that much…"

Canada thrust the dispatch into England's hands.

"What do you think makes us what we are?" he demanded. "You and Papa both told me when I was younger that we as nations are driven by the people we represent, that much of who we are is influenced by them. So when you gave me America's people, did you really think that some part of America _wouldn't_ manifest itself in me?

"They've changed me, England. _You_ changed me by giving them to me with that damn contract, and now –"

"The contract you later destroyed, and had sent to me as an insult?" England interrupted. "Damn it, boy, that contract was for your own protection –"

"What protection?" The remark was accompanied by a derisive snort. "It wasn't even worth the paper it was written on; what could it possibly be protecting me from?"

"It guaranteed that you – and only you – would have personification status of the colonies on this continent, for one!" England said. "It protected you from losing any part of your colonies to another personification!"

"Which clearly did not happen, because now there's another personification on this continent!"

"Because you destroyed the contract!" England said, unable to keep the desperation out of his voice at this point. "Or did you not notice? Alexander was born _after_ you destroyed it."

"Coincidence," Canada said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "The Loyalist Confederation would have broken off from the rest of the colonies anyway."

England dropped the dispatch as his arms fell to his sides, and he stared in disbelief at the young colony.

"Canada, please, stop this," he said. "I don't know what's gotten into you, but…"

"My name is no longer Canada."

"Then what is it?"

Canada knelt down and picked up the dispatch, handing it right back to England.

"Columbia," he said, then turned on his heel and left the tent without another word.

England looked down at the crumpled document. With trembling hands, he opened it up and began to read.

"The unanimous declaration of the United States of Columbia," he read aloud.

He threw the dispatch as far away from him as he could and sank to the floor, burying his face in his hands.


	19. Chapter 19

Attempts to negotiate with General Clinton progressed at a frustratingly slow pace. Over the course of the rest of the month of April, General Hamilton met with General Clinton on several occasions, under a flag of truce, yet the discussions never seemed to get anywhere.

Meanwhile, the wound in England's side slowly began to heal. In about another month, England figured he would have recovered enough to be able to fight alongside his men again. Every day, after eating the rations provided for him, England would get up and move around his tent.

He had plenty of maneuvering room; while the tent itself was not all that large, the only other thing in the tent besides himself was a bundle of threadbare blankets that served as a bed. Pushing the makeshift bed into one corner, England then walked around in a small circle. He tried to stay upright as long as possible, grimacing and gritting his teeth against the pain that flared up in his side. Progress was slow, but by the end of the month, England was able to keep on his feet for hours at a time, and the pain from his wound had greatly diminished.

The Congressional dispatch lay forgotten on a patch of dirt in the corner of the tent for the first several days after England had left it there. However, one day while he was walking around, he finally noticed it again, and despite the sickening feeling in his gut, knelt down and picked it up. When Canada had given it to him the other day, England hadn't even read past the first sentence before discarding it. That first sentence alone had reminded him far too strongly of a similar document sent to him from the Continental Congress ten years ago. Then again, everything reminded him of ten years ago.

England reread the opening line.

_The United States of Columbia?_

His wound started to flare up again, so England sat down. He set the paper on his lap, leaned his head against one of the tent poles, and closed his eyes. It took a minute for the throbbing to subside, meanwhile, the dispatch lay momentarily forgotten in England's lap.

England slowly reopened his eyes. Somewhat reluctantly, he picked up the paper again, holding it up and reading it from where he sat in the dirt.

He immediately began to regret his decision.

This document did more than merely remind England of the Declaration from ten years ago – some of the passages copied their predecessor word for word. Unconsciously tightening his grip on the paper, England skimmed quickly through the rest of it. When he got to the bottom, however, something immediately looked off.

There were no signatures by any of the delegates.

Furrowing his brow in confusion, England flipped the paper over, but the backside was totally blank. No one had signed this apparent second Declaration.

_Cowards,_ England thought. _They know what happened to the men who signed the previous one…_

But something still felt off. England reread the last line.

"…pledge to each other our lives, our fortunes and our sacred honor," he muttered.

He looked at the empty space at the bottom of the document, noting how small it actually was. There couldn't possibly be enough room for the signatures of the entire Continental delegation anyway. Even without the Southern colonies, delegates from both French and British Canada had managed to compensate for the Southern absence in Congress.

_Whatever they think they're playing at, it's not going to work…_

Giving up on trying to figure out what was probably nothing more than a triviality, England crumpled the paper and tossed it back into the corner of the tent. He laid down on his makeshift bed, eventually drifting off into sleep.

**(-)**

The day after Hamilton returned from the last round of negotiations with the British, a courier arrived with word from General Nathanael Greene, the newly appointed commander of a division of mixed Canadian and American volunteers. The long-awaited reinforcements had finally arrived.

"Send for General Williams immediately," Hamilton told the courier as he finished reading Greene's message.

"Yes, sir."

The courier dashed out the door of Hamilton's headquarters, and into the camp, looking for General Williams.

Meanwhile, the young country himself sat in his chair in the corner of his tent, holding the rolled up draft of the new Declaration. After having left it in England's hands for several weeks, Matthew went back for it at the end of the month. When he went into the prisoner's tent, England was still asleep, and the paper lay on the floor right next to the entrance. Surprisingly, the paper was still in reasonably good condition; England had not done anything with it.

Now, with the paper back in its country's hands, he unrolled it, spreading it out on the small desk in front of him. He fixed his attention on his new name, written in large print in the opening line of the document.

"Columbia," he muttered.

Not Canada. Not America. Both names had been discarded, their separate countries having been dissolved, incorporated into a new nation that was both, and yet neither.

Columbia set the rolled up draft on the small table in front of him and stood up.

"General Williams?" called a voice from just outside the tent.

"Yes?"

The courier pulled the tent flap back and gestured for Columbia to come with him.

"General Hamilton sent for you," the courier explained as the two men began heading over to Hamilton's headquarters.

"Did something happen?"

"I don't know. I just arrived here with a message from General Greene. He's the one who sent me here."

Columbia frowned.

"General Greene?"

"Congress appointed him general of a new division of volunteers, sent south to reinforce Hamilton's army."

_He leads the reinforcements from Quebec?_ Columbia thought, letting out a sigh of relief.

Both men fell silent, and picked up the pace as they approached the house that currently served as the general's headquarters. The courier reached the door first, pulling the door open and leading the way inside. They quickly crossed the foyer, making their way to the drawing room, where Hamilton and a few of his junior officers sat gathered around a large table.

Hamilton stood up as soon as he saw Columbia enter the room. He thanked the courier, and the courier then saluted and promptly left. As the distant sound of the front door closing echoed faintly from down the hall, Hamilton gestured for his country to have a seat at the table. Columbia sat down, and Hamilton immediately began the meeting.

"General Greene has brought this army its much-needed reinforcements," Hamilton said. "In his dispatch, he reported having a number of skirmishes with the Loyalist militia nearby Philadelphia."

"Philadelphia?" Columbia said incredulously. "How did the enemy manage to get that far north undetected?"

"They wasted valuable time marching a long, circuitous route around us," Hamilton replied, tracing the route he described on the map that lay spread out on the table. "Probably something like this. As Greene marched his men down from New York, his army clashed with the Loyalists'."

He moved his finger to point to several spots, all of which lay just miles to the northwest of the capital.

"He gradually pushed them south. According to his last scout's report, they had retreated south of the Pennsylvania border. They've probably rendezvoused with their British allies by now."

"But, our scouts have reported no Loyalist presence in Clinton's army," Columbia said, his brow furrowed in mild confusion.

"Then, they've disappeared again," one of Hamilton's aides said, casting a worried look at the map.

"We've already pushed the British back, and now their Loyalist allies are being pushed back with them," Hamilton said. "Now that we have the strength to match them, we can press our advantage."

Columbia flashed a weak smile. While the news was certainly encouraging, nobody acted like it. The aides and other officers still looked uneasy. And though Hamilton normally spoke with a rather guarded tone, he sounded more grim than usual.

An uncomfortably long pause followed while the nation and his general studied the map. Taking a moment to turn his attention inward, Columbia searched his country for regions of conflict other than the Pennsylvania border.

In recent days, Cornwallis had abruptly decided to end the stalemate in New York, and British artillery had opened fire on West Point, where Lafayette and Prussia still held command of the fort's garrison. Further west, British-allied Iroquois tribes had started raiding towns near the border between the colonies and Iroquois territory. Rebel-allied Iroquois tribes, assisted by small brigades of colonial militias, clashed with the enemy Iroquois. Anywhere these battles were fought, the countryside went up in flame – sometimes, a colonial town, others, an Iroquois village.

From further north, volunteer militia and Native American allies slowly made their way south to reinforce the rebel army wherever they were needed. Unfortunately, this trickle of reinforcements was both too small and too slow.

"When do we move out?" Columbia asked hesitantly.

"When Greene reaches the border, which should be in the next day or two," Hamilton said. "Then, we will march our armies in opposite directions of each other, circling around the British position, until we trap them in between our two armies."

"That won't work. They'd see the trap long before we could implement it, and move."

Hamilton smirked.

"That's exactly what we want them to do," he said. "Because their only option would be to keep retreating south."

"What about the Loyalist army?"

"Greene reported they took heavy losses before retreating beyond the border. They won't have recovered in time to be much of a threat."

"We're pushing them into their own territory," Columbia objected. "They'll have reinforcements readily available from Richmond. Not only that, every port in the South is controlled by the British. They won't have to worry about supplies either."

"We know better than to pursue farther than our own supply line can keep up," Hamilton said. "And as for the enemy's supplies, we're going to try to disrupt that as well."

"How?"

"We've been finding allies in unlikely places. There are still enough Patriots scattered in the southern colonies that may be able to help disrupt enemy supplies and communication from within."

Hamilton rolled up the map and put it away. The other officers stood up, one by one dismissing themselves from the drawing room. One of the men stayed for an extra few seconds while Hamilton whispered some instructions to him, then he hurriedly followed the others out. Columbia rose from his chair as well, but Hamilton held up a hand to stop him.

"A moment, please, General Williams," he said.

Hesitantly lowering himself back in the chair, Columbia waited as the last of Hamilton's officers left. The two men waited until the door closed behind the last man to leave before speaking.

"You said General Clinton might have been willing to withdraw from the Pennsylvania colony in exchange for General Kirkland's release," Hamilton said.

Columbia bit his lip. After a few seconds without hearing a reply, Hamilton stood up and walked around the table. Resting his hands on the tabletop, leaning slightly forward against the table, he stared contemplatively at the wooden surface.

"Perhaps it was just British arrogance," Hamilton went on, not lifting his gaze from the table. "But didn't it strike you as odd how little Clinton seemed to think of our demand?"

Hamilton took a step back, now taking his attention away from the table, and looking Columbia in the eye.

"He doesn't think one general is worth losing ground in a campaign," Columbia replied with an unhelpful shrug.

"That's not the problem." Hamilton shook his head. "He just didn't seem to be concerned about what happened to Kirkland. But it wasn't out of contempt for the man, it was…"

He fell silent, struggling to find the appropriate word.

"Confidence," he said at last. "Like there's something he knows that we don't."

"Oh…"

_He doesn't know yet, does he?_

"Do you have any idea what it might be?" Hamilton asked.

"Um…"

Over a minute went by without a word from either man. Agitated by the uncomfortable silence, Hamilton began pacing in front of the table.

"In the last war, when I was under Washington's command, we fought Kirkland several times," he said. "Back then, I thought nothing of it. But now…"

He shook his head vigorously.

"What is it?" Columbia asked.

"It's been ten years," Hamilton said. "And he looks the same. He hasn't aged a day."

"What does that have to do with –"

"I wouldn't have thought much of that either," Hamilton continued, cutting off Columbia's question. "But he's not the only one."

"Pardon?"

Hamilton abruptly stopped pacing.

"You look exactly like your brother; I thought you must have been his twin," he said. "But I met him eleven years ago. Yet you still look exactly like he did back then."

Columbia sighed and folded his arms. _Has he figured it out?_ he wondered.

"Not only that, but Alfred seemed to know General Kirkland personally, if his comments about the man meant anything," Hamilton said. "So, the question all this ultimately points to is whether there really is something different about you."

He paused, tapping a finger on the tabletop while he mused quietly to himself. Columbia waited patiently for Hamilton to continue, while mulling over his own thoughts as well.

_He's the Commander in Chief of the Continental Army, the same position General Washington had in the last war,_ Columbia thought. _I suppose it's only fair; Washington knew what Alfred was…_

"General Hamilton," Columbia said.

Hamilton turned his head sharply to look at his country.

"Alfred and I aren't twins in the way you might think of the word, but yes, you can think of us that way," Columbia began. "And we both know the Lord General Arthur Kirkland very personally. In a way, he was our brother, but again, not in the normal sense."

Hamilton frowned. "I'm not sure what you mean by that, but I'll accept it," he said. "But that doesn't answer my question. Is there something else about you and Kirkland that you haven't told me?"

"Well…" Columbia heaved a sigh. "Yes. But it's a very high-level, sensitive secret. Only a select handful of people in a nation's government are ever allowed to be privy to this information. The only reason I withheld it until now is because I did not yet know if you would be one of those men. However, as General of the Continental Army, I now believe you are."

Hamilton arched an eyebrow. Sitting back down at the table, he gestured for Columbia to begin his explanation.

"Tell me."

"All right." Columbia took the seat across from the general. "I'll begin with our names. My real name is not Matthew Williams, and our prisoner's real name is not Arthur Kirkland. And, for that matter, my brother's name was not Alfred Jones."

"What are your real names, then?"

"My name… no, I'll start with Arthur. His real name is England."

Hamilton frowned. "Why is he named after a country?"

"Because he is one. So am I. I am the United States of Columbia, or just Columbia, for short."

Hamilton looked doubtful. "An entire country, in the form of a man?"

"You were wondering why Arthur and I don't age," Columbia said. "That's why. We are the living personifications of our nations. We're actually centuries old, but none of us ever age much past the physical appearance of a young adult."

"So you're immortal," Hamilton said, though he still sounded a little skeptical.

Columbia lowered his head. "Almost," he said. "Under certain circumstances, we can be killed…"

Hamilton sighed and leaned back, running a hand across his face.

"Your brother," he said. "You said he was killed in the Battle of West Point. The same place where the Revolution was lost."

Columbia nodded his head very slowly. "My brother's name was America. When the American hope of independence was destroyed, he died with it."

"But it wasn't totally destroyed," Hamilton objected. "The war we're in right now is proof of that."

"There's more to it than that," Columbia said. "Before Columbia, I was Canada. But when the war ended, England gave me all thirteen of my brother's colonies. For the past six years, I have been filling the role of both countries: Canada _and_ America."

"So you changed your name to fit," Hamilton said. "But I still don't understand. The colonies themselves were never destroyed. If he was their personification, your brother should not have died, even if he lost the war."

"I'm only telling you what England told me," Columbia said. "He once told me that we can only survive as long as whatever we represent still exists. When he gave me the colonies after the end of the war, he said that the cause America represented was gone. He must have meant that America wanted to personify a new nation, not the colonies. But the United States of America, and everything it represented, ended at West Point six years ago."

"I find that hard to believe," Hamilton said. "What if he did survive, and is wandering the colonies somewhere?"

Columbia shook his head sadly. "No. He's buried just outside West Point. I've been to his grave."

"Hmm."

Hamilton stared long and hard at the wall.

"All right," he said. "So what happens to you?"

"What do you mean?"

"If you're the living representation of this new country, then… what are you going to do?"

The room fell silent as Columbia stared contemplatively off into the distance, trying to word his response.

"Well, you've taken the Continental Army in Washington's place," he said. "And I've become the country you fight for in Alfred's place. So, we finish the work they started."

**(-)**

All attempts at negotiation having failed, and now bolstered with Greene's reinforcements, the rebel army went back on the march on the first day of May. Greene and Hamilton coordinated their armies as Hamilton had planned; they circled the British and then closed in on opposite sides. Initially, the plan met with success, and they gradually pushed the British further south, through Maryland. They very nearly pushed as far as Virginia, until their advance came to a sudden stop.

Days before Hamilton ordered the advance, Greene had reported that the Loyalist army had retreated south. They retreated so far south that his scouts were forced to turn back, and they lost track of them. Not very long into Hamilton's new aggressive campaign, the Loyalists returned with reinforcements, most likely from Richmond. Loyalist skirmishers and British cavalry harassed Greene's half of the army, slowing their movements and inflicting alarmingly high casualties.

Attempting to relieve Greene's army, Hamilton had to divert his own, and abandon his previous objective. The two armies merged, and prepared for a clash with combined British and Loyalist forces, just a few miles from the banks of the Potomac River.

Columbia set up his tent in the army camp for the night, and spent a few hours after the sun had set just staring out at the slowly gathering fog to the south. Somewhere out to the south and west, hiding in that fog, the British army set up camp. Scouts would be returning any minute with reports of the enemy positions, although their instructions were to take the reports to Hamilton and Greene.

The Loyalist Confederation wandered aimlessly through his own camp, still carrying a new rifle he had just acquired from a shipment of supplies that recently arrived in Richmond. By now, the men had learned to ignore the child carrying a rifle through the camp. He had proved plenty deadly on the battlefield, so no one was keen to complain.

The two armies settled into their beds with marked unease that night, knowing that they had camped so close to each other. However, both sides were also exhausted, and desperately needed the rest. But further north, unbeknownst to Columbia, the Loyalist Confederation, or their men, someone else prepared for a night-long ride instead of a night's rest.

England had remained in rebel custody, quietly recovering from his wound. He remained a prisoner in that same tent, under armed guard, with a small contingent of militia that Columbia had left in the Pennsylvania colony.

Finally, after nearly a month and a half of waiting, his wound had healed enough to the point that England barely noticed it. Exactly what he would need now, as he couldn't risk the wound slowing him down when he escaped his rebel captors and rode back to his army.

England deliberately waited until nightfall. As if to serve as an additional, if small, blessing, some rather think cloud cover rolled in from the north, completely blocking out the light from the moon and stars. Once he was out of the rebel camp, finding him would be all but impossible in such conditions.

As the sound of activity outside his tent died down only the rustling of leaves in the breeze, and the sound of men snoring could be heard. Certain that most of the camp was now asleep, England made his move. He picked up his blanket and walked over to the tent entrance. He yanked the tent flap back and threw his blanket over the head of one guard, and quickly seized the other by the throat. In the few seconds that the first guard wasted trying to get the blanket off, England knocked his comrade unconscious, stole his musket, and then struck the first guard over the head with the butt of the musket.

The guard cried out, though his cry was not so much out of pain as a signal to the rest of the camp that something was wrong. England swore, knowing his plan had already gone awry. He shot the guard and fled.

Half-dressed soldiers flocked to the tent where they had heard the warning cry. They found the two guards lying outside the now empty tent, one guard unconscious, and the other dead. The prisoner was long gone.

"Search the camp! Find him!" the captain shouted.

The soldiers quickly dispersed, checking every corner of the camp for the escaped prisoner.

England went directly to the holding pen for the horses. Working quickly to pick the crude, improvised lock installed on the wooden gate, England hurried inside and untied the nearest horse. As he mounted the animal, he heard shouting, and the camp began to light up with scattered torch and lantern lights. Digging his heels into the horse's side, England rode out of the holding pen, and as soon as he cleared the gate, made the horse break into an immediate gallop.

"He's stealing one of the horses!"

The shouting intensified in volume, and everyone ran for the holding pen. By the time they got there, however, England was already gone.

England did not slow down once he got out of the camp. Thinking someone would try to follow him on the other horses, he continued to press his stolen horse as hard as he knew it could handle, riding like his life depended on it. Only after maintaining this pace for several miles did he relax, and allow the horse to slow down. And even then, he did not slow down by very much.

If anyone had tried to follow him, he had probably lost them by now. The silence all around him seemed to indicate that much.

The ride lasted all night. As morning neared, the temperature dropped, and fog from the Potomac River spread outward, lowering visibility even further.

As the first rays of sunlight just started to poke out over the horizon, England slowed the horse to a trot. The fog continued to thicken, and a drizzle of rain began falling from the sky. England changed course, heading more eastward, away from the fog. Increasing sunlight from the east, and a steady decrease in the fog drastically improved visibility as England continued riding southeast.

A line of tents became visible on the southern horizon, but as England approached, he also began to hear the muffled report of cannon fire. He tried to speed the horse up again, but now it was so exhausted that it was simply unable to run any faster. Reluctantly, England slowed the horse to a walk, but continued to ride in the direction of the battle.

Past the encampment, England finally found the battle. From this distance, a sea of blue clashed with another of red. Huge clouds of smoke blocked the view of each side's batteries of artillery, and a larger, albeit not as thick cloud of smoke from musket fire covered the rest of the field in a gray haze.

_Ignore the battle; I need to get to my spellbook._

England began to maneuver his way around the battle, circling around to get to his own side's encampment, which turned out to be hidden in the fog, on the banks of the Potomac.

After wasting nearly an hour in trying to reach the camp while keeping clear of the battle, England reached the British camp, and immediately dismounted. Practically right as his feet touched the ground, he took off at a sprint, looking for the tent where his possessions would likely be stored.

Minutes later, he found it. The trunk storing his possessions sat in the corner of the general's pavilion, and it only took England about a minute of careful searching to find the key. He unlocked the trunk, pocketed the key, and began sifting through the trunk's contents.

"There it is…"

* * *

**Ending Notes: Nathanael Greene (in real history) was a general during the American Revolution. However, since he didn't receive his command until late 1780, in this timeline the war ended before he ever became a general.**


	20. Chapter 20

England flipped rapidly through the pages of the spellbook, taking little more than a cursory glance at the spells he remembered using last time. Then, shutting the book and tucking it under one arm, he closed his eyes and took a few seconds to remind himself of what he needed to do to prepare the spells. After another minute of going through the trunk's contents, England found a small knife, and after a brief glance at it to see if it was in good condition, hid it in his pocket. He grabbed the satchel that lay on the ground, shoving the spellbook into it, then slinging it over his shoulder. Taking the trunk key out of his pocket, he closed and locked the trunk, then, leaving the key on the table, left the tent.

The distant boom of cannon fire sounded from across the plain, accompanied by the crackle of musket fire. Walking quickly to the edge of the encampment, England paused, glancing out at the battlefield.

Through the smoke, England could somewhat make out the movement of the opposing forces. A swath of red surged forward, threatening to break the rebel line, which appeared to have already fractured under a barrage of British artillery fire. Rebel artillery returned fire at the advancing British infantry in an attempt to slow them down. It didn't work. The Redcoats reached the rebel line, and the line immediately broke.

England tightened his grip on the satchel's strap, but stayed rooted to the spot. As he continued to watch the battle, his resolve faltered.

_There is no place within miles of here safe enough to do this, _England thought. _But if I wait until the battle is over…_

The British broke ranks, charging wildly forward in anticipation of what looked like an easy victory. The rebels scrambled to limber their cannons and retreat before British infantry fell on them.

England started walking toward the battle. His steps were slow and hesitant at first, but he gradually quickened his pace as he approached. During the entirety of the walk, his gaze remained fixed on the fighting. He watched the rebel army completely fall apart at the sight of the advancing British bayonets. By the time he reached British lines, the rebel line had receded practically out of sight behind the crest of the hill they had been standing on just minutes before.

Amidst the triumphant shouts in the British ranks, the groans and screams of wounded men being carried in from the field could also be heard. England stopped abruptly as a horse-drawn cart bearing half a dozen wounded suddenly ran in front of him, headed back to the camp. While he only got a half a second's glance, England saw and immediately recognized one person in the cart, and the sight nearly made his heart stop.

Alexander was in that cart.

England froze. Tearing his gaze away from the battlefield, he slowly turned his head to watch the cart as it made its way back to camp. He stood there for almost a minute, not moving a muscle.

_Damn it, what do I do?_

England broke into a sprint, following the cart.

**(-)**

On the battlefield, both sides rushed to carry their wounded off the field. The rebels had retreated to the crest of the hill, temporarily losing artillery support as the officers ordered the pieces moved further back. In the meantime, the front center columns of militia rapidly collapsed under the British bayonet charge. A regiment of cavalry under the command of one of Greene's colonels arrived just moments before the battle would have turned into a rout, assisting and rallying their beleaguered allies.

Minutes before the devastating British charge, however, both sides had taken heavy casualties from several volleys of musket and cannon fire. Columbia had been standing in the ranks of Hamilton's right wing of militia, facing Loyalist skirmishers. Despite the Loyalist regiments not having their own artillery support, they nevertheless rained punishing hails of lead on Columbia and his rebels.

Columbia ran across his army's line, Loyalist bullets just barely missing him. At the regimental commander's order, he lifted America's rifle to aim at the Loyalist ranks.

As he surveyed his target, a split second before the order to fire was given, he happened to lock gazes with the Loyalist Confederation himself. The two nations aimed at each other, and fired. Both were hit. Both fell.

Columbia could barely hear his own screams of pain above those of his men. When he fell, he immediately rolled onto his side, keeping his grip on the rifle as if his life depended on it. Someone cried out the name 'General Williams', but he didn't hear it.

Curling into a fetal position, Columbia let go of the rifle with his left hand, pressing that hand into his stomach area, where warm fluid had spilled all over his shirt, and now washed onto his hand. He craned his neck to look, and watched with horror as his blood spilled onto his hand, clothing, and even the grass under him.

Screaming savagely, Columbia desperately tried to push himself up, using the rifle as a crutch. He made it onto his knees, but his vision suddenly went blurry, and he was hit with a bout of vertigo that threatened to make him fall again.

_Damn it… no! I can't…_

He needed help. But with his mind addled by blood loss, panic, and desperation, Columbia cried out only the two names he could think of.

"_Alfred!"_ He pushed himself up a little bit more. _"Papa!"_

Someone grabbed him under his arms and hoisted him all the way up. Columbia stumbled a bit, but with the stranger's assistance, stayed on his feet. His helper took Columbia's free arm and threw it over his own shoulders, allowing his country to lean on him as they slowly began to walk away from the battle.

It took several minutes to cover the distance from the front line to the crest of the hill. By then, the center of Hamilton's army had already started to disintegrate under the British bayonet charge.

France and Hamilton waited at the crest of the hill. As soon as he saw the younger nation, France ran over to help.

"Mathieu!" France said, standing on Columbia's left side and holding him up by the left shoulder. He cast a worried look at the wound in Columbia's abdomen. "What happened?"

Hamilton rode up beside the three men, looking concerned as well.

"Get this man's wound treated immediately," Hamilton said to the soldier holding Columbia's right side.

The soldier knelt down, helping Columbia to sit on the grass, then searched his pack for something he could use to treat Columbia's wound. Unfortunately, the only things he could find were ammunition, powder, and rations. He ended up tearing off a corner of his coat and pressing that onto Columbia's wound, hoping that would stanch the bleeding somewhat until they could reach the camp.

France and the rebel soldier held Columbia up by one shoulder each. The three of them began a slow walk back to the rebel camp.

**(-)**

England caught up to the cart at the British camp. As his men got out the stretchers, and began carrying the wounded to the medical tents, England quickly jumped in to help. He leaned over the side of the cart, letting out a sigh of relief when Alexander opened his eyes and looked at him.

"Eng…" Alexander said weakly.

"Don't," England whispered. "Don't try to speak. Just relax."

He moved around the cart to where he could more easily reach the boy. Bracing Alexander's neck and shoulders under one arm, and his legs under the other, England lifted the younger nation's small frame out of the cart with ease and carried him to the medical tent. He went in and gently laid Alexander down on the nearest unoccupied cot.

England cast about for the nearest medicine and bandaging he could find. Seizing a fistful of bandages, England quickly set to work treating the younger nation's wound.

Alexander's shirt was so thoroughly saturated with blood that the wound itself was difficult to see. Blinking back tears and swallowing bile, England grabbed the shirt and ripped it open, then took a cloth and began wiping the blood off Alexander's chest. At the touch of the coarse fabric on his skin, Alexander winced, and began to squirm and groan.

Biting down hard on his lip and ignoring Alexander's groaning, England kept at his task for a few seconds more until he finally found the source of the bleeding. He violently threw the now saturated cloth aside. The wound was squarely in the center of the boy's chest.

Such a wound would have been instantly fatal for an ordinary human. England exhaled sharply, hanging his head and closing his eyes.

_Thank God this was just a random rebel bullet,_ England thought. _He and Canada haven't killed each other yet…_

Alexander pressed his hands down on his wound, cursing in his pain. His cries jolted England back to reality, and the older nation grabbed the bandages, pushing Alexander's hands out of the way so he could wrap the wound. Alexander inhaled deeply, trying to force himself to relax.

"I'm not… going to die… am I?" he asked.

"No," England said, keeping his voice low so the other soldiers couldn't hear. "Ordinary humans can't kill us, no matter how severe the wound they inflict. A wound like this –"

"Matthew…"

"What?"

"Matthew shot me."

England froze, turned deathly pale and let go of the bandages.

_No!_

"Are – are you sure it was him?" he asked.

"We… saw each other at the same time," Alexander said. "We fired… I think… we hit each other. I couldn't see…"

He stopped mid-sentence and hissed in pain, grabbing at his wound again. England picked up the bandages. His face still pale, eyes wide, and his heart racing, he resumed his task of binding the younger nation's wound, though his gaze was not even fixed on what he was doing. Rather, his eyes took on a glassy, unfocused look the whole time he worked. Not only that, his hands also slipped several times, both from being slick with blood, and from shaking terribly with newfound fear and anguish.

England never did finish the job. Giving up, he stood up gingerly, his whole body shaking. One of the uninjured soldiers rushed over and took over Alexander's care for him. Breathing a weak thanks to the soldier, England then took a few very apprehensive steps back, his lips moving, but no sound coming out.

"No, no, no… dear God, no…" he silently mouthed.

He let his arms hang limply at his sides. His left hand came to rest on the side of his satchel, touching the corner of the spellbook inside.

Images from his last spellcasting attempt flashed in his memory. Memories from the war six years ago quickly accompanied them. Somehow, England knew it all had to fit together, and the only way to know how was to try the spell again.

_My older self will also know what happens here,_ England thought. _He'll know how the war ends…_

Yet he continued to stand there and watch as the soldier treated Alexander's wound. Eventually, the soldier finished bandaging the wound, and he stood up and went outside. On his way out, he shot England a grim glance that, even though it lasted only a fraction of a second, made its meaning instantly, painfully clear.

A weak choking noise escaped England's throat, and he went to stand next to the cot again. Alexander had his eyes squeezed shut, his hand resting on the bloodstained bandages. His breathing had slowed, and was still erratic.

"Alex," England said.

Alexander merely groaned in reply.

"Alexander," England said, more earnestly this time.

Alexander coughed and opened his eyes.

"What is going on?" he asked. "The battle…"

His breathing gradually evened out, and he lifted his hand from his wound, trying to look at it.

"Is the battle over?" Alexander asked. "I can't… hear the fighting… and my wound feels…"

"Has the bleeding stopped?" England knelt down to check.

Carefully moving some of the cloth, he inspected the wound. It had definitely slowed, but had not completely stopped. Turning his attention inward, England mentally assessed his own army.

"Yes, I think the battle is over," England said. _He appears to be stabilizing… he might survive after all…_

"Did… we win?"

"I don't know."

Alexander sighed. He said nothing for a minute, instead, he took several deep breaths, wincing and reflexively putting his hand over his wound.

"Will I live?" he said finally.

"…Yes."

"What about Matthew?"

England hesitated. When he finally did speak, he nearly choked on the words.

"I don't know."

Neither nation spoke for an uncomfortable several seconds. England rose to his feet, one hand clutching his satchel. He took a hesitant step back from the cot, watching anxiously as Alexander's eyes slowly closed, and the young nation drifted into a light sleep. England remained where he was for a minute, watching the steady rise and fall of Alexander's chest, fearing to turn away lest the movements stop.

After about a minute with no incident, England finally turned around and left the tent. He headed to the general's headquarters, knowing he would need to have a word with General Clinton before he did anything else.

**(-)**

While the last minute arrival of rebel cavalry prevented the battle from turning into a total loss, Hamilton and Greene nevertheless pulled their armies a few miles back. They had failed to push the British out of Maryland and regain control of the Potomac River, but had at least saved themselves from outright defeat.

While his generals handled the retreat and assessed their losses, Columbia was carried to a medical tent to have his wound treated. Doctors stripped off the blood soaked shirt and coat, then tightly wrapped Columbia's stomach with long strips of clean cloth. France, who had helped carry him to camp, also helped dress his wound. When the doctors had finished, and gone to help the other wounded soldiers, France stayed by the younger nation's side for a while.

France glanced around him, making sure no one would overhear. But when he did speak, he still kept his voice lowered.

"How's your wound?" he asked.

Columbia attempted to sit up, but fell back down on the bed, contorting his face in pain and gripping his abdomen with both hands. He lay there breathless for a few seconds, but recovered, and took a couple of deep breaths before opening his eyes.

"The battle's over…" he said.

He glanced around the tent, watching the doctors and soldiers wandering about, helping the wounded. Closing his eyes, he let out a sigh of relief.

"I'm still alive… he shot me… and I'm still alive…"

France looked up in alarm.

"Who shot you?" he asked. "I thought Angleterre was being held prisoner –"

"The Loyalist boy," Columbia said. "He was leading the Loyalist troops… I tried to shoot him… but he shot me…"

France said nothing.

"I thought… I was going to die," Columbia went on.

Again, France was silent.

"Isn't this… how America died? Only nations… can kill other nations?"

Visibly shaken by Columbia's words, France struggled to formulate a reply.

"I…" he began. "I don't know. I didn't see what happened, I only know what other people told me afterward."

"Why?" A single tear streamed down Columbia's face. "Why did he die… and I didn't?"

"I don't know," France said sadly. "I'm sorry."

**(-)**

England did not tell General Clinton what exactly he was going to be doing, but he had made it abundantly clear that he was not, under any circumstances, to be disturbed. However, he did not return to his own tent. Casting the time travel spell in the middle of camp, even with the general's assurance that he would not be interrupted, was still too dangerous. That evening, England rode out a short distance from the camp, and, hidden in the cover of a grove near the river shore, dismounted and began preparing the spell.

Preparations were brief. He drew the circle in the ground, made a small cut in his arm with the knife, and allowed the blood to drip into the center of the circle. Opening the spellbook, England then began chanting.

Working as best he could from memory, England tried to locate the approximate spot in the timeline he had found in his last attempt. Unfortunately, that didn't quite work.

The incantation circle lit up, and images of the future materialized within the circle. England mentally directed the spell to what he thought was far enough forward in the timeline. As he worked, images rapidly appeared and dissolved into each other, but finally, he stopped, and the image stabilized.

This image looked nothing like what he had seen in the last attempt. He saw his younger self, wearing strange clothes again, but he was standing in an alley. The ground looked like black rock, and was littered with papers, and some other strange, brightly colored objects England had never seen before. The buildings themselves looked different to what he was used to as well.

_Where and when is this?_

England looked back at his younger self. His older self had now knelt down, and was drawing something on the ground. Upon closer inspection, England realized that it was an incantation circle. And, off to the side, just within the edge of the circle, two other men stood, watching England's older self.

The first one, standing closest to the future England, wearing similarly strange clothes, was a man that looked exactly like America, with the only difference being that he was wearing glasses. Right next to him stood – another America.

And this one wore a tattered blue Patriot coat, and was holding a musket.

_What the hell? _

England's older self stood up and began chanting an incantation that sounded vaguely similar to the one England himself had just chanted a minute ago. The incantation circle under him lit up, and a few seconds later, he and the two Americas vanished.

"Wait!"

England reached out as if to grab his older self, but the image vanished a split second after the three men did. Now, the spell projected no image at all, just an eerily silent and still blackness. England waited with growing impatience for the spell to find his older self again, but it didn't.

Instead, the blackness abruptly vanished before England could do anything, and he was suddenly returned to the present. The light in his incantation circle faded. The spell had stopped.

"What is going on?"

England chanted the spell again. Duplicating everything he had just done a few minutes ago, he actually managed to find the same spot. The same thing happened. Right after seeing his older self and the two Americas, the older England would chant, the three nations would vanish from England's sight, and then the image went black, and the spell abruptly ended.

England swore. Slamming the spellbook shut and pacing in and out of the circle, he racked his brains, trying to figure out what to do.

_The spell was tracking my older self,_ he thought. _So why did it stop when he cast that spell? Shouldn't it have followed him to wherever he went?_

He shook his head. Ever since he had first tried this magic to answer his questions, he had never had any answered; instead, what little he had seen only generated more questions. And his inexplicably temperamental magic wasn't even the most disturbing one.

England sat down, setting the spellbook aside. Resting his chin in his hands, he stared ahead at nothing in particular while he tried to puzzle out everything he had seen thus far.

_Canada tried to travel back in time, but failed,_ he thought. _Yet, in the future… why were there _two_ Americas there? Did America travel forward in time somehow? _

England sighed in exasperation, shaking his head and pulling his hair.

_That still doesn't explain the other America… how is he…_

England lifted his head, sitting bolt upright all of a sudden as the realization struck him.

His older self and both Americas had been at West Point. However, he had encountered his older self before that fateful battle.

_My older self sent himself and both Americas back in time? But how did America travel forward in time without magic? And how is there a future version of him if he… died?_

His vision started to go blurry. Blinking the tears out of his eyes, England picked up the spellbook, determined to try one last time. Standing back in the center of the circle, he started chanting again.


	21. Chapter 21

**Author's Note: Sorry about the wait, guys. I ended up scrapping the entire chapter several times before getting something that worked. Please let me know if this is acceptable.**

**I really wanted to get this in before the new year too, but certain RL things have been interfering as well.**

**Enjoy.**

* * *

A third attempt to open the temporal gate in the same place was all but guaranteed to fail, so England tried directing the spell somewhere else. Remembering back to his very first attempt back in London, he poured all of his energy and focus into recreating what had happened there.

He scarcely paid attention to the words of his chant. His concentration had narrowed the world to just him, the incantation circle, and his destination. Each syllable in the incantation flowed out of his mouth with his barely being aware of it, while in his mind's eye, he carefully constructed the scene he had seen back in London. As soon as the picture was complete, he stopped chanting, and opened his eyes.

Already something had clearly gone wrong. The picture did not match exactly. It was definitely the same room he remembered seeing back in London, but there were obvious changes to the scenario that he had not anticipated.

For some reason, the spell had recreated the scene such that he appeared to be facing the opposite direction from last time. Now he faced the room's door, and he saw a man his height, with his hair, and wearing strange clothes standing next to it. England turned around, quickly taking note of the empty chair in front of the desk. There was no one else in the room.

_Canada and America were here last time,_ England thought. _I know I saw and heard both of them…_

His thinking was disrupted by the sound of the doorknob turning. England turned around just in time to see his older self leave the room.

England stood still. The spell would follow wherever his older self went, allowing England to observe without having to move.

Or so he thought.

The door slammed shut, leaving England alone in the room. Nonplussed, England glanced down at his spellbook.

_My older self is the focus, why didn't it follow him?_

England took a few steps forward, until he was close enough to the door that he could reach it. Continuing to hold the spellbook open in one hand, he reached for the door with the other.

His hand closed around the knob, pressing the flesh of his palm and fingers against the smooth, metallic surface. He quickly withdrew his hand, as if the cool metal had actually been very hot.

_Oh God… did I cross the temporal gate by accident?_

The sound of the older England's footsteps gradually faded, and it grew unnervingly quiet in the room. For a minute, England just stood there, glancing at the open pages of his spellbook, and at his surroundings, wondering what to do.

_I still don't know where or when this is,_ he thought.

Closing the spellbook and setting it on the bed, England walked over to the window. He drew the curtains back and looked outside. Nothing could have prepared him for the bizarre sight that greeted him.

Strangely shaped carriages of all kinds of colors raced by on a grayish black street. Even stranger, none of these carriages had any horses drawing them. Tall buildings, also of unusual design, lined the sides of the streets. At each intersection, some kind of contraption hung over the street, constantly cycling through green, yellow and red lights. Signs written in English denoted what England guessed were likely street names, addresses, or businesses.

_Is this one of my cities, in the future?_

Turning away from the window, England went to explore the room. Somewhere, there had to be something that would tell him where and when he was.

He went to the desk. After giving the single-legged, wheeled chair a doubtful look, he scanned the desk's surface. A set of keys sat in one corner, and even these didn't look quite normal.

England went to the bureau by the bed, picking up the various items one by one, trying to figure out what they even were. He picked up a thin rectangular object, and when he touched a finger to its dark, reflective surface, it lit up.

"What the –"

He almost dropped it. However, after looking at it again, he saw the message "slide to unlock" on the now brightly lit surface.

_Slide what?_

After staring at it for a few seconds, the England put it back on the bureau, and while he examined a long, thin cord with metal prongs on one end, the light on the other object turned off. Putting the cord back, England looked at the black box with the red numbers on it sitting on the edge nearest the wall. It took him a while to guess what the numbers actually meant.

_Is this a clock? _England picked it up as well. _What do these symbols on the top mean?_

England's inspection was interrupted by the sound of approaching footsteps. Immediately going into a panic, he set the clock back on the bureau and cast about for somewhere to hide. He seized his spellbook and went over to the closet door by the desk.

His heart nearly stopped at the sound of the doorknob turning and the door swinging open. He froze, one hand still on the closet door handle, afraid to turn around.

"What the hell?"

England's hand slipped off the handle, and he nearly dropped his spellbook. That voice belonged to America.

Pivoting very slowly on his heel, England turned around to face the room entrance. Sure enough, there on the threshold stood his dead colony, very much alive.

"America?" England asked weakly.

"Dude," America said, his confused expression quickly morphing to one of annoyance. "Please tell me this is a prank."

"What?"

America's attention shifted from England's bright red uniform to the spellbook in England's left hand. America's face suddenly turned very pale.

"England?" he said, stealing a few apprehensive glances around the room as he spoke. "Where did you get that uniform? I'm pretty sure you didn't pack it with you when you left London…"

_He's mistaking me for my older self,_ England thought. _Maybe I can – _

Not waiting for an answer, America abruptly turned around and went to the desk. He yanked the drawer open and pulled out a book.

"Oh, hell no," America said. "Not again."

_Again? What does that mean?_

America turned around, his earlier apprehensive expression now replaced with anger. Crossing the distance between the desk and England in just three strides, he halted right in front of England and held up the book he had taken from the desk. It looked exactly like England's spellbook.

"How did you get that?" America demanded, pointing at the spellbook in England's hand.

"It's mine," England said. "It came from my library in London."

America looked unimpressed.

"I highly doubt that," he said. "How did you get in here?"

England's eyes went wide with bewilderment.

"Sorry, what?"

America tossed the spellbook onto the bed, then walked over to the door – which had been left open since he came in – and closed it.

"Don't play dumb with me," he growled as he faced England again. "I can tell from that uniform you're not the England that I know. He hasn't worn anything like that in years, and definitely would not have brought a military uniform on a simple visit."

_Visit to where? What is going on?_

While England struggled to formulate a reply, America continued talking, apparently not wanting to wait for a reply.

"West Point," he said.

England blanched.

"What?" he said weakly.

"You're the England I saw at West Point, aren't you?"

England's throat closed, and he clutched his spellbook with both hands as his body began to break into a cold sweat. This was, in fact, the person England had seen kneeling beside America's body at the Battle of West Point. And yet, by all indication, this man was also America.

"How did you…?" England began.

"You're wearing the same uniform, holding the same spellbook," America interrupted, assuming he already knew what England's question was. "It makes sense. But what the hell are you doing here?"

"You were at West Point, along with my older self?" England asked. "You saw…?"

"Yeah, I saw," America said curtly. "I saw you shoot my other self. Watched him die right in front of me."

"But –" England gestured at America. "You're still alive!"

"_I_ am," America said. "But you didn't shoot me."

England did a double take.

"But you're America, aren't you?" he protested. "You just said you watched yourself die!"

America gave an exasperated sigh. "Yeah, well…" he said. "Not quite. That America and I are not literally the same person. We're just different versions of the same person."

England shook his head, still confused. "What does that mean?"

"Well," America began. "England – not you, the one I know – said something about there being two timelines, and that they diverge at the Revolution."

"Two timelines," England muttered. He looked down at his spellbook, turning it over in his hand.

"In _this _timeline, I won," America continued. "In your timeline, I… that timeline's America died."

That explained why England had seen two Americas at West Point. It explained how this America had appeared to survive his own death; he hadn't died in the first place. And yet, for all the questions that had suddenly been answered, there was no relief to be found in those answers.

This wasn't his America. England closed his eyes, and his shoulders slumped as the realization weighed down on him. Though he had tried avoiding it for quite some time now, hoping that the time travel magic would show him how he could have America back; that he could somehow undo what he had done, England was once again confronted with the full weight of his actions. And this time, there really was no avoiding the truth.

He would never be able to have his America back. His blood would forever be on England's hands.

"So why are you here?"

England's head snapped up, jolted back to reality by America's voice. He locked gazes with this alternate America, inwardly wincing at the glare that met him. For a minute, England was totally lost for words.

After waiting impatiently for a minute without getting a reply, America heaved a very loud sigh.

"Whatever it is you want, you can't get it here," America said. "Go back to your world."

England's expression hardened. He wasn't ready to give up yet.

"What were you doing at West Point?"

"What?"

"If we're not from the same world, why were you there?" England demanded.

America looked away for a second, tapping his finger on the corner of the bed. When he returned his attention to England, however, his glare was no less diminished.

"Because the other America somehow got into this one," America said. "England tried to send him back, and accidentally sent all three of us. But maybe _you_ can explain what magic you screwed up to create the… thing that brought the other America here."

"That was Canada's doing, not mine!" England blurted.

"Canada?"

America furrowed his brow thoughtfully. He took a step back, looking away again. The room fell silent.

"What did he do?" America asked finally.

England exhaled sharply and lowered his gaze, shaking his head.

"He stole the spellbook that the older me left," he said. "Whatever he did with it must have torn open some kind of magic portal connecting our worlds."

"He was probably trying to bring me back," America said grimly. "And you're saying that what he did ended up sending the other America to this world in the first place?"

Both England and America stared at each other in stunned silence for several seconds. England turned away from America, staring intently at the wall, biting down on his lip.

_Canada tried to go back in time to prevent America's death,_ he thought. _But something went wrong with the temporal portal… he failed…_

"Damn it all…"

An uncomfortable silence fell on the room. England stared at the wall, still trying to process everything he had just learned. America waited quietly, shifting his feet and darting his gaze around the room.

"There's nothing we can do," America said quietly.

England opened his spellbook. With a trembling hand, he opened back to the page of the spell he had used earlier. As he traced a finger over the pattern of the incantation circle, his heart beat faster, and his mind raced.

"When will the other England return?"

**(-)**

Night fell on the rebel camp. Columbia had long since drifted off to sleep, but France remained by his brother's side. However, when a messenger came to the medical tent to inform him that General Hamilton had called for him, France immediately got up and followed the man to Hamilton's pavilion.

France stepped into the tent, and found the general standing over a table, holding a piece of paper. As soon as France had stepped inside, Hamilton waved him over and handed over the paper, and France began to read.

"Lafayette's couriers just delivered this today," Hamilton said.

It was a dispatch from Lafayette, up at West Point. And as France continued to read, he had increasing difficulty holding back his elation and relief. For the first time, some good news had come.

"French ships and Prussian guns," Hamilton said. "It seems news of our victory at West Point has finally earned some much-needed European support."

France flashed a brief smile.

"Yes," he said.

"Though I admit, our Prussian allies came as a surprise," Hamilton went on. "Did your friend have anything to do with that?"

France gave an unhelpful shrug.

"He's a respected officer in the Prussian military, but…" he said.

"He's more than that, isn't he?" Hamilton interrupted.

"What do you mean?"

"Relax," Hamilton said. "Matthew explained everything."

France nodded. _So now he knows what we are,_ he thought. _That may help…_

"France?" Hamilton asked.

France nodded again. "And Monsieur Beilschmidt is the nation of Prussia," he said.

"Right."

Hamilton paced aimlessly for a minute, stroking his chin thoughtfully. The tent became awkwardly quiet, but then Hamilton came to an abrupt halt, focusing his attention on France once again.

"Your countrymen will be arriving soon," Hamilton said. "They will be needed in the fight to protect West Point."

"Yes."

"Lafayette already commands the garrison of Continental troops. I've entrusted the defense of that fort to him."

Hamilton rested his hands on the table. France shot him a quizzical look.

"What will you do?" Hamilton asked. "Join your men, or stay with your brother?"

France lowered his gaze, thinking. For a brief moment, he was torn.

As a nation, he was much better suited to fighting alongside his own people. And West Point was undoubtedly in dire need of help, as its strategic position would make it a deciding factor in this war. Its fall to British hands six years ago had already spelled out the death sentence of one nation; that could not be allowed to happen again. Yet at the same time, he couldn't bring himself to leave.

_I can join Prussia and help protect West Point, or I can stay here and try to protect Mathieu, _he thought.

"I will stay here," France said. _For now…_


	22. Chapter 22

"What does that matter?" America said. "There's nothing he can do either."

"What makes you so sure?" England retorted.

America folded his arms, glowering at England. "I said there's nothing we can do. Now leave."

"Canada's attempt at magic made a damaged temporal portal," England said. "Maybe we can repair it…"

America froze.

"How would that help?" he asked. "I don't think that's why the timeline split."

England locked gazes with America. His free hand, hanging at his side, clenched into a fist.

"You can't know that," he said. "You don't know how the magic works."

"Whatever Canada did, it allowed the other America to safely land in this world," America shot back. "It can't have been that badly damaged. So, even if you could repair it, it's going to have the same outcome anyway."

England shook his head vigorously. America let out an exasperated sigh, and his eyes flashed with anger.

"Leave," he said, with a threatening undertone to his voice.

England unclenched his fist and quickly lifted his hand to cover his mouth in an attempt to hide the sudden fit of bitter laughter that threatened to escape him.

_He couldn't force me to leave if he tried,_ he thought. _He doesn't know how to use my magic. I can just stall until my counterpart returns._

America opened his mouth as if to say something, but immediately cut himself off at the sound of someone knocking on the door.

"England?" a voice called softly from the other side of the door.

America rolled his eyes and whirled around to answer the door. As he put his hand on the handle, he turned his head to look back at England. Gesturing at the closet door, he mouthed for England to hide in there. Much to his annoyance, England didn't budge.

Swearing under his breath, America gave up and opened the door just wide enough for him to slip outside, then immediately closed it behind him.

"He's not in here," America said. "I actually don't know where he went."

"Oh," the other person said.

England stared intently at the door. He recognized that voice.

"Do you think he went back to the alley?" the other person continued. "Norway was saying something about the temporal portal earlier…"

_That's Canada's voice!_

"What? Didn't Norway go home a couple days ago?"

Canada gave no audible response to America's question. A few seconds of silence followed, and just as England was about to approach the door and investigate, a sudden noise coming from the bureau beside the bed startled him. After the initial shock, though, England quickly recognized the 'noise' as a musical tune. He laid his spellbook beside his counterpart's, and strode over to the bureau.

The noise was coming from the flat metallic object he had examined earlier. Out of curiosity, England picked it up, trying to figure out what it was doing now. However, right as he picked it up, the door opened and America came running back into the room.

"He left his phone in here?" Canada's voice called out from behind America, who now stood blocking the doorway.

England stood rooted to the spot, staring wide-eyed at America and still holding his older self's phone. The phone's ring tone was the only sound breaking the silence in the room.

America pushed a button on the phone in his own hand, and the room fell completely silent. Behind him, Canada edged closer to the doorway, peeking over America's shoulder and into the room. Almost immediately, he met gazes with England, and the Canadian's eyebrows shot up at the sight.

"England?" Canada asked.

America turned around with a start.

"Yeah, he left his phone in here," America said.

Canada frowned at his brother.

"Um…" Canada stepped over the threshold, squeezing past America, and pointed at England. "What is going on?"

America glared at England before giving his reply to Canada. He sighed, as if resigning himself.

"Remember the two timelines idea we were talking about?" America said. "This is the England from the other timeline."

Canada nodded, not looking at all surprised. He walked over to the bed, looking curiously at the two spellbooks.

"He left his phone _and_ his spellbook?" Canada muttered to himself. Turning away from the bed, he faced England. "Why are you here?"

Unlike America, Canada's tone was not accusatory. He sounded confused more than anything else.

"I was…" England began hesitantly. He paused, looking back and forth between America and Canada.

This America had won his Revolution. Aside from the glasses and strange clothes, he looked exactly like the young colony England remembered. Canada wore glasses as well, and still had his lavender eyes. As he was about to continue, England suddenly choked on the rest of his reply.

_What is this timeline like? If I could see what would have become of these two…_

America began shifting his weight back and forth on his feet in agitation, while Canada merely continued to stare with a curious expression on his face. Before finally working up the courage to speak again, England dropped the phone onto the bed, beside his counterpart's spellbook.

"I needed to know," England said at last.

"Know what?" America asked.

"Why there were two of you at West Point," England said. He heaved a sigh and continued, "At first, I didn't know it was you. But when Canada rebelled, and a new personification appeared…"

Canada looked taken aback, and America gave his brother a sideways glance.

"What does that mean?" Canada asked.

"_Canada_ rebelled?" America said incredulously, returning his attention to England.

England threw his arms up in the air and sighed again.

"He stole that spellbook from me after he learned about… about America's death," England said, and the volume and pace of his speech dropped noticeably. He pointed at his counterpart's spellbook. "I tried to get it back, but I never found it."

"Oh," Canada said. He glanced around, casting about for what to say. "Uh, how do I explain this…"

America took half a step backward, flashing an annoyed look at Canada, which Canada ignored.

"Norway, Romania and I went to investigate after America and England disappeared," Canada went on. "Romania went to your timeline and recovered our England's spellbook. That's why you never found it."

England said nothing, but watched Canada expressionlessly, as if expecting him to continue. Canada fidgeted, and then did continue.

"Norway opened a temporary portal to your timeline, and I went through to rescue England and America," he said.

"So the person who grabbed them when they disappeared was…" England said.

Canada nodded. "Me."

America cleared his throat and stepped forward, pointing at the two spellbooks lying on the bed.

"Well, you found your version of the same book," he said. "So what were you trying to do with it? You said Canada also rebelled; were you trying to look into the future, see if he'd suffer the same fate?"

Canada's face drained of color, and he stared wide-eyed at his brother.

"America!"

England held up a hand, trying to silence Canada, forgetting that this wasn't his Canada either. Both Canada and America ignored him; they had turned their attention to each other. They seemed to be having a staring contest of sorts, as neither spoke.

"He's not… entirely wrong," England said weakly.

The two brothers snapped out of their staring contest and focused their attention on England. Some of the color slowly started to return to Canada's face, and America's accusatory glare had suddenly softened for some reason.

"What does that mean?" Canada asked.

"After Canada rebelled, a new personification appeared," England said. He gestured at America. "At first, I thought he was you… that he and my older self had traveled back in time."

America looked unimpressed.

"That's not the whole story, is it?" he asked.

"I wanted answers," England continued. "Who was the new personification? Why did my older self travel back in time? _Why did America die?_"

America and Canada exchanged glances. Before either one could say anything, England shook his head vigorously and continued.

"No," he said. "I know… he relinquished personification of British America in favor of being the United States of America… Canada's done the same thing, that's why Alex was born…"

America frowned.

"What…?"

"I gave the thirteen colonies to Canada after the end of the war," England said. "But he lost some of those colonies to a new personification, born not long after Canada started the second rebellion."

America closed his eyes. "Oh my God…"

England lowered his gaze to the floor, and the room fell uncomfortably quiet. While England and America weren't paying attention, Canada grabbed England's spellbook from the bed and began flipping through it.

"England," Canada said. "You should go back."

He held the book out for England to take. England reluctantly reached out and took his spellbook back, then turned to the page of the time travel spell. Tapping his index finger on the diagram of the incantation circle, he lifted his gaze to look at America again.

_Maybe there is nothing I can do here,_ England thought. _Can I repair Canada's mistake from my own timeline? Wait…_

"I have to draw the circle in order to cast this," England said.

"Yeah," America said. "What do you need? We can probably erase it afterward."

**(-)**

Strange dreams troubled Columbia's sleep throughout the night. It started with him standing alone on a featureless plain, and the only sound was that of a voice calling out. The cries seemed to come from all directions, but they were faint, distant. Though he strained to listen, Columbia was completely unable to make out the words, or even whose voice it was.

Columbia jolted awake, and spent several seconds lying still in his cot, staring upward at what he knew to be the tent ceiling, even though it was impossible to see in the darkness.

_What was that?_

He lay there in uneasy quiet for a minute. Never figuring out what had woken him up in the first place, Columbia nevertheless drifted back to sleep eventually. Unfortunately, the next time he awoke, the reason would be all too clear.

As he slept, another dream came to him. Muffled shouts and gunfire seemed to surround him, but in the pitch black, Columbia couldn't see what was going on. He tried to move, but his body wouldn't respond. Then, above the other sounds, a voice cried out.

"_Come on_!"

It was America's voice.

"_Get up! Please!"_

After that distraught plea, the battle sounds quickly faded. For a terrifying several seconds, Columbia lay there, paralyzed, and unable to see, hear or feel anything. The world itself seemed to have vanished.

Columbia suddenly opened his eyes and sat bolt upright, his heart racing. The darkness and quiet of the tent had felt just a little too similar to the setting of the nightmare, and it took him a few seconds to realize that he was still in the medical tent, lying in a cot. It was the searing pain in his abdomen, which forced him to lay back down, clutching the wound with both hands, and biting his tongue to prevent himself from crying out, that ultimately brought him back to reality.

It took a few agonizing minutes for the pain to subside. When it did, however, Columbia did not relax. He lay still, staring upward as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

Even now that he was awake, the dream would not leave him alone. It replayed in his head over and over as he lay there, trying to make sense of it.

"What do you want from me?"

No answer came. Not that he had expected one in the first place, or even knew for sure whom the question had been directed to. Columbia just lay there, while the only sound around him was that of men snoring. Eventually, his exhaustion caught up to him again and he drifted back to sleep.

He awoke the next morning in incredible pain. After eating a small morsel of meal, and drinking some water, Columbia tried sitting upright, against the advice of the army doctor. As Columbia fell back into his cot, face contorted in pain, France entered the tent and practically sprinted to Columbia's side. After about a minute, when the pain finally subsided, Columbia visibly relaxed, and opened his eyes.

"Mathieu," France said softly.

"What…?"

"Hamilton has ordered the men to march."

"What?!"

Columbia tried to sit up again, but France reached forward and held the younger nation down before he could hurt himself.

"Relax," France said. "We're not ready to attack yet. But we are moving."

"Are we being pursued?"

"No. Neither the British nor the Loyalist armies have moved since yesterday afternoon."

Columbia frowned.

"What happened to the Loyalist boy?"

France did a double take.

"I don't know... I thought you said the two of you shot each other... why do you ask?"

Columbia sighed and shook his head, apparently dismissing the subject just as quickly as he'd brought it up. His eyes fell shut, but only remained that way for a scant two seconds. Last night's dream drifted unbidden back into his thoughts, and the memory of America's anguished cries caused Columbia's eyes to fly wide open. He cursed under his breath.

Before France could ask what happened, a handful of soldiers entered the tent in pairs, each pair carrying a stretcher. One pair approached Columbia's bed, and helped France lift Columbia off the bed and onto the stretcher. In a matter of minutes, Columbia and several other of the wounded had been carried to a wagon, which would transport them alongside the main army.

In the British and Loyalist camps, a similar scene played out as the armies moved their wounded. Alexander proved easy to move, as he had not yet awoken, and his child-sized frame weighed much less than the other soldiers.

However, not long after the wagon had started moving, Alexander awoke with a start, covered in cold sweat, and tears streaming down his face.

**(-)**

At Canada's suggestion, the three nations went into the basement of the house to draw England's incantation circle. In the ten minutes that it took to find some chalk, and then going down to the basement, the England of this timeline still had not returned. It took only a few minutes more for England to draw his circle, and presently, he stood in its center, spellbook in hand.

England heaved a sigh and began casting. The circle lit up, and, while England was too focused to notice, America discreetly slipped out of the room, leaving only Canada standing directly in front of the circle, just a few feet away. He calmly watched the magic-induced lightshow before him, waiting. As soon as the spell was complete, and England was gone, he would erase the circle. His tools for doing so – a mop, a sponge, and a bucket of water – sat in the corner near the stairs.

This world's Canada had no more idea how magic worked than his counterpart. He had no idea what England was actually doing.

Relying on the twin nations' ignorance of magic, England had determined to try what he had suggested earlier, but under the guise of casting the original time travel spell. As he did this, he took extra precautions to ensure he made no mistakes. He closed his eyes, focusing so intently on his task that everything else except him and the spell seemed to fade.

It did not take long to find the damaged portal. England psychically directed the magical energy at it, but, even with his eyes closed, was still able to see it. He saw Canada's attempt, heard the botched incantations.

England and Canada's two separate strands of temporal magic began to intertwine. England tried to direct his own magic to disentangle Canada's incomplete and damaged strand, but as he did so, something else happened that he had not anticipated.

A third strand began tangling with his and Canada's.

_No!_ _What the hell is happening?_

England's body appeared rigid except for his mouth, which muttered incantations at increasingly rapid speeds. Canada, who had been watching the scene for a few minutes now, took a cautious step towards the circle, looking concerned. The glow around the circle increased in intensity the faster England chanted, and eventually, Canada had to shield his eyes.

"England?"

England seemed to have fallen silent, although he was actually chanting under his breath. Meanwhile, the light had grown so intense that Canada could no longer look at the circle.

"England!"

Right as Canada gave up, and headed for the stairs to find America, the light vanished. Stopping abruptly, and standing still for a few moments while his eyes adjusted to the sudden darkness, Canada eventually grabbed the mop and bucket.

England had vanished. Only the incantation circle on the floor remained as evidence that he had ever been here. Canada soaked the mop in the bucket, and then mopped away the chalk marks.

"I hope he didn't screw something up," he muttered to himself as he worked. "I don't recall Norway's magic doing that when we rescued England and America…"

**(-)**

England's eyes fluttered open, and his heart plummeted at the sight before him. On the one hand, now he knew where the third strand had come from. On the other hand, his problems had probably just gotten much worse.

He stood in the same alley that Canada's magic had gone to, standing face to face with his older self. The two men behind him, he quickly recognized as Norway and Romania.


	23. Chapter 23

***apologizes a million times* Hopefully that is the last time I go on a hiatus that long. Anyway, here (finally) is the next chapter!**

* * *

The British, Loyalist and Patriot armies remained deadlocked on the banks of the Potomac for several days. Even with their accelerated healing abilities, Columbia and Alexander both grew increasingly agitated the longer they laid immobile in their armies' medical tents. Against the advice of the doctors, Columbia tried getting out of bed and walking on his own. On his first attempt, he immediately collapsed on the grass, and had to be helped back into bed. However, within a matter of days, Columbia's rapid healing took over, and he was finally able to leave the medical tent without help.

He wandered very slowly over to the mess tent to help himself to some breakfast early in the morning, as a gentle drizzle of rain fell on the camp. When he finished his meager meal, he began wandering the camp again, only to be stopped by one of General Hamilton's adjutants.

"General Williams," the man said, sounding surprised. "There you are."

Columbia frowned.

"General Hamilton was looking for you," the adjutant went on. "When he couldn't find you in the medical tent-"

"Oh."

Columbia swayed on his feet as a sudden dizzy spell struck. Pressing a hand down on the fresh bandages covering his wound, he took a moment to breathe deeply and steady himself.

"My wound had healed enough I thought I could leave the tent on my own," Columbia explained. "I was just having some breakfast… what does General Hamilton want?"

"I believe he just wanted to check on your condition. I will tell him."

The adjutant turned to leave, but Columbia held up a hand to stop him.

"Wait," he said. "Let me go with you. I need to speak with General Hamilton myself."

"All right. Follow me."

They began walking, but kept a slow pace. During the walk, Columbia occasionally stumbled as he fought his exhaustion and dizziness. The short walk to the mess tent had taken more out of him than he expected. By the time he made it to General Hamilton's tent, he had to lean heavily on one of the poles, wrapping one arm around it just to stay upright.

"General…" Columbia said weakly as he entered the tent.

Hamilton's adjutant grabbed Columbia by the shoulders to hold him up. Columbia stood absolutely still for a few seconds, and with the other man's help, took a seat in the chair opposite Hamilton.

Hamilton dismissed his adjutant with a wave of his hand, then rose from his chair. Making his way quickly around to the other side of the table, he rested a hand on the back of Columbia's chair, eyeing his country with concern.

"What are you doing out of the medical tent?" Hamilton demanded. "You can barely walk!"

"I was walking just fine several minutes ago," Columbia protested. "My wound has healed enough by now…"

Hamilton made a small choking sound, and turned away, shaking his head.

"General?" Columbia asked, his brow furrowed in concern.

"Remind me, Columbia," Hamilton said. "Under _exactly_ what circumstances can your kind die?"

Columbia's face drained of color. He stared wide-eyed at his general, unconsciously tightening his grip on the arms of his chair.

"What?"

Hamilton rounded on Columbia, placing both hands firmly on the oaken desk between him and his country, and stared unblinkingly into Columbia's cornflower eyes.

"That wound damn near killed you," Hamilton said, lifting one hand just long enough to point at Columbia's abdomen. "I know you can't be that easy to kill, so what was different this time?"

"I was shot by a fellow nation," Columbia said. He lowered his gaze. "Wounds inflicted by other nations always take longer to heal, but in rare cases… they can also kill."

Hamilton let out a heavy sigh, removed his hands from the desk and stood upright. A long silence followed.

Columbia fidgeted with the hem of his shirt, keeping his head lowered to avoid Hamilton's gaze. However, Hamilton had taken to pacing behind his desk, paying no attention to his country as he rapidly stepped and pivoted, stepped and pivoted, noticeably straining to keep his composure.

"It was England himself that killed Alfred, wasn't it?" Hamilton asked as he came to an abrupt halt.

"Yes."

Hamilton shook his head. "Is he deliberately trying to kill his own children? First your brother, and now you?"

Columbia's hands started to shake, so he clasped them together firmly in his lap. The tent fell silent as he took a couple of deep breaths, staring intently at his hands before finally answering Hamilton's question.

"No."

Hamilton did a double take.

"No?"

Tears blurred Columbia's vision as he lifted his gaze, and unclasped his hands. Blinking several times to clear his eyes, he then looked Hamilton directly in the eye.

"I did not see England at all in that battle," Columbia said. "I was shot by… someone else."

"You said you were shot by a fellow nation!" Hamilton said. "Besides France, there weren't any others there!"

Columbia sighed.

"No," he said. "I've lost the four southern colonies to another personification. He was leading the Loyalist forces in that battle."

Hamilton rested his hands on the back of his chair, a skeptical expression on his face.

"Where did _this _come from?" Hamilton demanded. "I thought you and Alfred were the only –"

"We were. Not anymore," Columbia interrupted. "A new nation has been born out of the people still loyal to the British. He's taken those four colonies from me."

"I see."

Releasing his hands from the back of the chair, Hamilton let out a small sigh and took a step backward. His brows furrowed as he stared long and hard at the tabletop, thinking.

"It's looking less and less likely that we'll be able to retake the southern colonies," Hamilton said. "Especially now that our forces have been spread over multiple fronts. We can push the enemy Iroquois out of the frontier, or we can take the southern colonies back, or we can defend the coast. But we cannot do all three."

"If we lose West Point, I'll lose everything north of there as well," Columbia said. He frowned. "But, France's ships will be reinforcing our coastal defenses! The only problem is down here…"

"But I cannot afford to lose any more men on a failing campaign," Hamilton added. "That is why I will hold a conference with General Greene tomorrow to discuss our next move. But no matter what happens, you should return to West Point."

Columbia shook his head.

"Why?"

Hamilton did not reply. Instead, he scooped up the scattered mess of papers on his desk, making a halfhearted attempt to straighten them out before handing them to his country. Then he left the tent without saying a word, leaving a nonplussed Columbia to stare down at the papers in his hand. He began to sort through them, glancing over each document briefly before actually reading them.

Most of them were just maps of the region. The rest were scouting reports from the past several days, as well as a missive from General Lafayette. Setting the maps back on the desk, Columbia went through the reports.

The enemy armies had regrouped since the battle, but had not yet made any movement into Patriot-held territory. Companies of Loyalist militia sent from Richmond had recently arrived, compensating for the losses sustained in the last battle. On the Patriot side, a steady stream of reinforcements made their way down from the Canada and New England colonies, but these had been spread thin over multiple fronts. And when Columbia set the reports down to read Lafayette's message, he found that the French general had requested even more reinforcements. Although the French fleet had arrived off the coast of New York, the real problem, Lafayette wrote, was with General Cornwallis' artillery on the mainland, out of the reach of naval cannons.

"How much powder and shot does Cornwallis have if he's trying to siege West Point…?" Columbia wondered aloud.

He set the papers on the desk and leaned back in the chair, closing his eyes in an attempt to focus.

_If I leave… England and the Loyalist boy wouldn't be able to reach me,_ Columbia thought.

He took a deep breath, his eyes still closed as he continued to weigh his options. Letting his focus shift northward, Columbia assessed how his people fared up in the New York region. In his mind's eye, he constructed an image of the fortifications at West Point. Scenarios began playing in his mind, of what he would do if he remained in Maryland, or if he returned to West Point. During the exercise, physical pain and exhaustion crept up on him, until he ultimately fell asleep in the chair.

And his picture of West Point shifted seamlessly from reality to dream.

As he explored his mental image of West Point, he passed a familiar clearing. Right as he turned to look directly at it, the image suddenly went black. A gunshot echoed in the darkness, followed immediately by a cry of pain.

Columbia jolted awake, gripping the arms of his chair so tightly that the wood began to splinter. It took several seconds for him to realize where he was, and to release his grip on the chair. He glanced down at the splinters he held in his hands, then stood up and tossed the splinters onto the floor. He stepped around the chair, headed for the exit, and had his hand on the tent flap when he suddenly balked. Turning his head slightly, he stared quizzically at the chair again.

After a few seconds, he blinked several times, shook his head, and left the tent.

**(-)**

England lowered his spellbook, locking gazes with his older counterpart. Masking his fear behind a defiant glare, he remained rooted to the spot, trying to read the other three nations' expressions. Norway held his usual neutral expression, and Romania had his eyebrows raised slightly as if surprised. The older England, however, was borderline livid.

"What happened?" England asked. "Where am I?'

"You're in an alley in Camden, South Carolina," the older England replied coldly.

"Uh…"

England's eyes darted around, looking from his counterpart, to Romania, to Norway, to the wall behind them. Muffled sounds of traffic came from beyond the alley, and when England stole a glance to the alley entrance, he caught a glimpse of another one of those metal carriages speeding past on the street outside.

"How did… did you bring me here?" he asked, returning his attention to the older England. "Why?"

"We were attempting to fix a damaged temporal portal. Until you interfered."

England shook his head, looking utterly confused.

"What?" _I did nothing… _their_ magic tangled with_ mine…

"Someone from your timeline accidentally created a temporal portal leading here," Norway cut in, stepping forward so that he was beside the older England. "We were trying to repair and close it, but your magic interfered."

"I did not interfere with you," England said defiantly. "In fact, I was trying to leave."

"Oh?" Romania's eyebrows went up higher. "Well, whatever you did, it's interfering. Whether you realized it or not."

The Eastern European nation's tone was laced with skepticism, but he kept a cordial expression when his raised eyebrows returned to normal. When England did not immediately reply to Romania's comment, all four nations fell silent. Except for the sound of the traffic outside, it grew uncomfortably quiet in the alley.

England glanced down at the spellbook that he now held closed in his hand. He ran a finger across the top corner of the pages, thinking. Then he looked back up, fixing his older self with as neutral an expression as he could manage.

"If I help fix the portal, will I be able to return to my world?" he asked finally.

"I don't see why you couldn't." Norway spoke quickly to cut off whatever the older England was about to say.

Romania nodded thoughtfully. Another pause ensued.

"Well, let's get to it then," the older England said curtly.

Norway took a few steps backward, lowering his gaze to the pattern drawn on the ground; a pattern that England immediately recognized as an incantation circle. Romania moved to stand on Norway's left side, and the older England stood on Norway's right. After a moment's hesitation, England stepped forward, positioning himself beside Romania so that he could see the spell in Norway's spellbook, which the Nordic nation held aloft for all four nations to read.

His spellbook was opened to the same spell that England had used in the basement of America's house earlier. England looked at the page in his own spellbook, waiting on the other three.

Romania started chanting first, though his voice was just barely audible. When the circle under the nations' feet began to glow, Norway joined in. A few seconds later, England and his counterpart added their voices to the magical chant. The circle quickly filled with magical light. Once again, as in his attempt in the basement, England psychically directed the energy of the spell at Canada's tangled and damaged thread of temporal magic. This time, however, he was assisted by not only his older self, but Norway and Romania as well.

The first step of the process went smoothly and quickly. They traced Canada's strand of temporal magic to its origin.

November 1780. Just a few months after America's death.

The four nations paused in their work, and the vortex of magical light slowed and faded, until it revealed a blurred picture of Canada, standing alone in what looked like a cellar. He held a spellbook in one hand, and as he started chanting, the circle under his feet lit up.

England's breath caught in his throat. Canada's failed attempt to save America was playing out right before his eyes. And the temporal magic linking 1780 and England's current position was still active.

"Be _very_ careful now," Romania whispered. "One misstep could make the dimensional tear even worse…"

_Or we could make Canada's failed spell succeed,_ England thought, and his heart began to race.

Norway and Romania picked up the spell's chant again, and they were quickly joined by England and his counterpart. This time, their spell took the strand of magic cast from Canada in 1780, and began trying to repair the damage caused by Canada's mistakes. To everyone's relief, this step also went smoothly. As their work progressed, England's heart soared.

_Canada will be able to save America!_ He thought. _I can undo it all... I can have Alfred and Matthew back, and end the war!_

Several minutes passed, and nearly all the damage had been repaired. The dimensional tear between England's world and his counterpart's world was almost fully closed. England watched with excitement as he, his older self, Norway and Romania performed the final steps. They directed Canada's temporal portal to its original intended destination, and then created a second portal, which England would then use to return to 1786.

The magical light faded to show a picture of a wooded area that looked vaguely familiar. Filled with newfound elation and confidence, England stepped through the portal, which the other nations immediately closed behind him the instant he set his feet on the grass in his own world.

He wandered around for a bit to get his bearings. As he continued to wander the woods, the location grew increasingly familiar, and England's confidence was inexplicably replaced by a sick feeling. He walked a few dozen paces more and entered a clearing. Tucking his spellbook under one arm, England looked up and down and around, looking for something in particular.

_I've changed history… it won't be here…_

England took five more steps, and something way off to the side, near the far edge of the clearing, caught his eye. His heart plummeted, but he nevertheless turned and approached it.

Two pieces of wood, attached to each other in the shape of a cross. On the horizontal piece, a name inscribed.

Alfred F. Jones.

England violently threw his spellbook aside, dropped to his knees, and screamed.


	24. Chapter 24

Doubling over in front of America's grave, England pulled at his hair with both hands as he continued to scream and cry. In such a distraught state, he became completely incoherent; he just screamed and wept, only pausing long enough to take shallow breaths, and taking no consideration to the fact that he was in enemy territory, and had long since given away his position. However, as his lungs and throat began to burn with pain, and England tired himself out, his cries devolved into weak sobs.

Several minutes went by, but before he had completely calmed down, the sound of footsteps jolted him back to reality. England sat bolt upright, and turned his head in the direction the footsteps had come from. His hands clenched into fists at the sight before him.

Prussia and a small handful of his men had entered the clearing. At the sight of England's bright red uniform, Prussia immediately raised his musket, aiming right at England's face. His men followed suit, and England soon found himself staring down the barrels of eight guns.

"What the hell are you doing here?" Prussia demanded.

His gaze drifted off to the side of England, and he did a double take at the sight of the grave marker, as if noticing it for the first time. He did not comment on it, however, and quickly returned his attention to England, whose red, tear-streaked face was slowly returning to its original color.

"None of your damn business," England said.

Prussia stole another glance at the grave before hardening his expression further. He gestured in the direction of West Point with his musket.

"Get up," Prussia said.

England returned Prussia's glare.

"I don't take orders from you," he spat.

Prussia's lip curved upward. "Yes, you do," he said. "Get up. Now."

When England still did not comply, Prussia just let out an annoyed sigh. He signaled his men, who then stepped forward and tried to seize England and lift him by force. England, however, would have none of it.

He punched the closest soldier in the gut, then seized the man's musket. To his annoyance, the soldier kept his grip on it, and struggled to get it away, while the other six swarmed England, grabbing his arms and hoisting him up. At this point, England lost all control and went into a rage. Even with six men holding onto his arms, England's empire strength overpowered them, and he fought fiercely to shake free, while simultaneously kicking and biting at everything he could see. He even bit deeply enough into one man's shoulder that his teeth went through the uniform and drew blood.

Prussia, seeing that his men were no match for the other nation, jumped in to intervene. By that time, England had freed his right arm, and punched and swung wildly, knocking out one soldier's teeth. The punch was followed by a kick directly to the same man's knee, which instantly shattered the kneecap. The soldier fell, clutching his knee and screaming in pain. Prussia had to jump over him to get to England.

He did not use his gun at all. Rather, he held the musket in his right hand while he delivered a swift but powerful punch to England's solar plexus with his left, knocking the empire flat on his back. Prussia's men – except for the one with the broken kneecap – then grabbed England by the arms once again, and this time, lifted him with ease.

England had to take several seconds to recover his breath. When he did, he looked up and locked gazes with Prussia, and both countries gave each other death glares.

"Take Weber back to the fort to get his wounds treated," Prussia ordered his men, not taking his eyes off England.

"Sir, the Redcoat – "

"I can handle him. Go."

The Prussian soldiers cast wary glances at England, but nevertheless followed their country's orders. Letting go of England, they went to help their injured comrade. They hoisted him up, and carried him out of the clearing. Meanwhile, Prussia seized England by the collar and dragged him backwards, toward the center of the clearing. England grabbed Prussia's wrist and tried to force his hand away, to which Prussia responded with a swift kick to England's stomach, knocking the wind out of him a second time.

The sound of Prussia's soldiers' footsteps gradually faded. Waiting a few more seconds after the men had gone out of earshot, Prussia then released England's collar, and stepped around him, taking a closer look at America's grave.

"You wandered this far from Cornwallis' camp just for this, huh?" Prussia said. He turned around, his ruby eyes blazing with fury. "You're an odd one, England. Most murderers don't visit their victims' graves."

"Shut up!" England snapped. "You know _nothing_ of what happened, you sanctimonious bastard…"

"You killed a nation," Prussia said. "In all the centuries I've been around, I've never known _anyone_ to go that far."

"_I did not murder him."_

"Then who did?" Prussia asked sarcastically.

"Shut up," England said again. He began shaking visibly. "Alfred's death was by my hand… but I never meant to… I didn't realize…"

"You killed him by accident." Prussia's eyes narrowed. "Even if that were true, that doesn't excuse what you did."

England's hands curled into fists, though his body continued to shake.

"Let go of your conceit and self-righteousness for a minute and _listen _to me, dammit," England said. "I know at some point in your history you must have shot a fellow nation. Possibly even inflicted a wound that, for ordinary humans, would have been fatal. But we nations have always recovered because, well, we're _nations_, and our connection to our people kept us alive."

Prussia lowered his gun. His glare softened, but there was still skepticism in his eyes. He took a step forward, looking England directly in the eye.

"What are you getting at?" Prussia asked. "You're not suggesting that he lost his connection to his people?"

"I think… he did," England said. "But I…"

"How could he have lost personification of all thirteen colonies?" Prussia interrupted. "We don't just lose the connection to our people for no reason. Something's not adding up, England… what else happened?"

England exhaled sharply, and tore his gaze away from Prussia, staring instead at America's grave. Memories of the events leading up to the Battle of West Point resurfaced in his mind as he stood there in silence, pondering a response to Prussia's question. Meanwhile, Prussia himself stood just a few paces in front and slightly to the left of the makeshift grave marker, still holding his musket, and his ruby eyes fixing England with a glare that demanded answers.

_Both Americas were there at the Battle of West Point,_ England thought. _But the other America would have come here with my alternate self, back at Camden. And they somehow got from South Carolina to New York…_

England closed his eyes.

_I know they were after my counterpart's spellbook… but I had it with me the whole time. They must have infiltrated my army's camp to look for it, but found and freed Alfred instead. Then all three showed up at West Point, but…_

_Prussia's right. Something had to have happened that made him lose personification of the colonies _before_ I shot him. But he wasn't having a problem before that point… what have I overlooked?_

Prussia tapped his foot impatiently. Unfortunately, England paid no attention. Instead, his attention was focused on the memories of what he had seen six years ago.

The memory replayed in his head with excruciating detail. A split second after firing the shot, and Alfred's scream had pierced the air, England had known already that something was wrong. Those cornflower eyes hadn't shown just pain. They had almost instantly gone dull, like the life was already fleeing his body, even before he fell. That dull, lifeless look had never filled any nation's eyes before, even when the nation had been inflicted with 'fatal' wounds.

Then, after he did fall, he had been immediately picked up by the other America. England didn't hear the words the two exchanged, but seconds later, it was clearly over. Alfred had died in his counterpart's arms. Then, not long after that, the other timeline's Canada had reached through a magic portal and taken the other England and America back to their world.

England froze as a terrifying thought suddenly occurred to him.

_Two Americas… two personifications of the same country in the same time… could that have done anything…? But there were two of me as well…_

"Fine."

England's head snapped up, suddenly distracted by Prussia's voice.

"You're coming with me," Prussia said, taking a few steps forward. "You don't want to talk here, so you can answer my question from the comfort of a holding cell in the fort."

Prussia took another step closer to England, and England responded by punching him squarely in the jaw. Stumbling backward, Prussia quickly caught himself and massaged his jaw briefly as he regained his composure, standing fully upright.

"I'm not answering your question from anywhere," England growled.

Prussia laughed, but his mirth was short-lived. He swung at England, narrowly missing him as the British nation sidestepped the blow. Fury surged through England's body, but unlike the fight earlier, he did not allow it to blind him. Instead, centuries' worth of experience and training took over, made several times more powerful by rage and sorrow.

_I will not be led around by this arrogant brat,_ he thought as he rammed his fist into Prussia's arm, which the albino had raised just in time to block another blow to the face.

"You only met Alfred the one time," England spat, following up his attack with another lightning-fast strike, this time aimed at Prussia's chest. "How dare you think you have any business in this war."

Prussia blocked the blow and leapt backwards to escape the barrage.

"This has nothing to do with how well I knew the kid," Prussia said. "It's got everything to do with the fact that you killed a nation – your own brother, at that!"

"That's not your concern!" England countered.

He practically sprinted toward Prussia, leaving the Prussian with little option but to quickly position his musket in a defensive stance. England tried to stop, but momentum carried him forward, and onto the musket's bayonet. Undeterred by the metal blade now protruding from his stomach, England reached forward and punched Prussia one more time, knocking him off his feet. Prussia lost his grip on the musket and fell flat on his back. Rolling quickly to the side and leaping back to his feet, Prussia looked at England again, who, in the same amount of time, had removed the bayonet from his abdomen, and now had the gun pointed at its owner.

"Get out of here," England spat. "Run back to West Point and report to your general."

Prussia's only reply was an obscene hand gesture. The clearing fell deathly silent for several seconds as the two nations stared each other down, and England tried to think of what to do.

"God… damn it…"

He fired.

Prussia grunted in pain, grimacing as he fought to stay upright. That didn't last long, and the Prussian presently dropped to one knee, gripping his wounded leg with both hands. Yet he still kept his gaze locked on England, teeth clenched in pain as well as anger.

Without another word, England tossed the musket at Prussia's feet, then turned and fled, and Prussia called down vile curses in German at England's retreating back until England disappeared from sight. Only after England was gone did Prussia decide to treat his wounded leg.

By now, nearly all of his right leg below the knee had turned red. Muttering some more choice German profanities, Prussia rummaged through his pack to find bandaging, which he then wrapped around the area in between his knee and the top of his boot. The bleeding quickly stopped, although the bandage just as quickly became saturated with blood. Letting out an annoyed sigh, Prussia reached for his musket and then rose gingerly to his feet. He limped over to stand in front of America's grave, where he stared down at it for a minute in silence.

"Picking a fight at the graveside…" Prussia said, shaking his head. "In a way, that was actually my fault. Sorry, kid."

He glanced in the direction England had fled.

"And that damn coward England got away, too," he continued. "Not for long, though. Your brother, France, and I will all kick his ass soon enough."

With that, Prussia turned and slowly made his way to the edge of the clearing. Using his musket as a crutch, he limped all the way back to West Point.

**(-)**

Following Hamilton's advice, Columbia left the southern campaign and headed to West Point. Several weeks later, nearing the end of June, Columbia and France crossed the New York border leading a brigade detached from Hamilton's army to serve as reinforcements. A unit of light cavalry rode ahead of them to scout out the enemy's position so they would know to go around, because until they rendezvoused with either Lafayette or Prussia, Columbia's little brigade stood little chance against the British forces.

British encampments surrounded the fort, preventing Columbia's forces from joining Lafayette's. Fortunately, the Prussian army, camped on the coast, and protected by the French ships just offshore, proved much more accessible, as the French and Prussian presence on the coast had pushed what was left of the British army out of New York City and its harbor. Columbia's army marched into New York, and he and France went to rendezvous with Prussia himself.

Prussia led the other two nations into an abandoned house, which he had recently converted into his headquarters, where they would discuss strategy for the upcoming battle. They sat around a circular table in the salon, where Prussia had spread out a map of West Point and the surrounding area.

"The French fleet, unfortunately, will be of little use in this battle," Prussia said.

"I know that," France said. "They're only here to protect New York."

Prussia regarded France with raised eyebrows.

"Have they sent any troops ashore to support us?" Columbia cut in.

"Oh yeah," Prussia said. Returning his attention to the map, he traced the French and Prussian army's route with his finger. "Keeping them out of sight of British scouts has been a real pain, though."

Columbia frowned. "Why do we need to hide their presence?"

Prussia gestured for Columbia to take a closer look at the map.

"Look at this, kid," Prussia said. "The British are almost completely surrounded. They've just lost control of the city, they can't cross the river, and they can't retreat south. If you were in that desperate of a situation, what would you do?"

Columbia thought for a minute, then his eyes went wide with realization.

"Oh…"

"We're trying to hide our numbers and position to lure them into a false sense of security when they attack West Point," Prussia said. "Because they desperately want that fort; they're going to unleash an assault sooner or later. But when they do, we'll have a hidden advantage that they won't know about until it's too late."

"Do the British know _you're _here?"

Prussia's face lit up with a manic grin.

"Oh, they definitely know I'm here, all right," he said. His smile then faded just as quickly as it appeared. He reached down and massaged his right leg, wincing as he did so.

"What's wrong with your leg?" Columbia asked. "Did they shoot you?"

"Yeah." Prussia stopped massaging his leg and rolled up the map. "Which reminds me: you might want to stay away from the front lines for this one."

"Why?"

Prussia tucked the map under his arm and sighed. He looked back and forth between Columbia and France. After a moment's thought, he gestured for Columbia to follow him. Columbia rose from his chair, but France remained in his seat at the table while the other two nations went into the hall.

"What is going on?" Columbia asked in hushed tones as Prussia closed the door behind them.

"A few weeks ago, I went on a patrol with some of my men," Prussia explained, and he lowered his voice as well. He began walking down the hall, with Columbia keeping pace right beside him. "I ran into England himself in the forest just outside West Point."

Columbia froze. "What?! He's supposed to still be in the South!" he exclaimed. "How did he get up here?"

Prussia shrugged. "I don't know."

They walked a few more paces down the hallway.

"But, regardless, stay off the front line," Prussia went on. "I guarantee you that's where he'll be. Especially since he doesn't know you're here."

Columbia sighed, but didn't say anything.

_This isn't the same… America was betrayed… but, when Arnold sold West Point, did England know America would be in the force that tried to retake it?_

Columbia closed his eyes and leaned against the wall. For a minute, neither he nor Prussia said a word, and Columbia nodded off for just a few seconds. Out of nowhere, a series of images flashed through his mind, like the last remnants of a nightmare before being subsumed under the conscious mind upon awakening.

A sea of red-clad soldiers charged toward him. Amid the chaos of men yelling and guns firing, one gunshot in particular seemed to stand out from the rest. It had come from directly in front of him, but from this distance, and everything blurred by smoke, it was impossible to identify the shooter. After that gunshot sounded, the world suddenly became muted. Half a second after that, everything went black.

Columbia jumped, and his eyes flew open. However, even being fully awake would not dispel the nightmare this time. As he stood there, a familiar voice cried out a familiar plea.

"_Get up! Please!"_

Columbia clutched the sides of his head, prompting a disconcerted Prussia to step forward, ready to catch the younger country if necessary.

"You all right?" Prussia asked.

Columbia waited a few seconds to reply. When it became apparent the episode had completely ended, he took his hands off his head, and his expression returned somewhat to normal.

"It's… something that happens from time to time," Columbia said at last. "A bad dream that keeps coming back. And it's the same thing every time."

"What?"

"Alfred… he's pleading with… someone. Like as if they were dying."

Prussia raised an eyebrow.

"Really? Any idea who this person is?" he asked.

Columbia shook his head.

"I've never been able to see them. In fact, the first time it happened, I thought _I_ was the person," he said. "In my dreams, everything goes black, I can feel like I'm lying on my back, but I can't move. That's when I hear his voice, and somehow, it feels like he's beside me, pleading with me to get up. But I can't."

Prussia frowned. "You're awake and standing up this time," he said.

"I know." Columbia rubbed his forehead. "I'm not even sure if it's just a nightmare anymore."

"What else could it be?"

Columbia shrugged. "I don't know… a memory…? An old, misplaced memory that belonged to someone else…"

Prussia's frown deepened in his bemusement.

"Yeah, sure," he said. "That makes no sense, kid."

Columbia said nothing. Instead, he quietly turned around and went back down the hall, to the room where France was still waiting.


	25. Chapter 25

**Author's Note: This battle will need to be spread over two chapters, I'm afraid. Here is part one; part two should be up soon!**

* * *

June faded into July, and still no word came of a British offensive on West Point. France had taken his leave of the camp in the last week of June, though he had promised to return 'shortly'. The British camp in between the Prussians and the fort continued to prevent Columbia from going over to visit Lafayette and check on the fort's status. To vent that frustration, Columbia took to pacing alone in his tent in between meals and training sessions. Several more days passed, and one day, Columbia broke routine and left camp rather than retreat to his tent. He didn't go far; just down to the banks of the Hudson.

A summer breeze ruffled his hair, occasionally blowing his lock of unusually long, curled hair into his face. Brushing the lock aside, Columbia sat cross-legged at the river's edge and looked down, examining his reflection for the first time in quite a while.

Dark circles had formed under his eyes from chronic sleep deprivation. But that wasn't what had caught the young country's attention. Columbia blinked, and leaned forward, looking more closely at the reflection of his eyes.

_When did that happen?_

Unbeknownst to him, his eyes had been gradually losing their lavender hue over the course of the war. Now, the lavender was totally gone; replaced by cornflower blue.

"Did anyone one else notice…?"

Columbia closed his eyes and thought for a minute. When he reopened them, he surveyed his surroundings briefly before returning his attention to the water. Keeping his gaze focused on his reflection, Columbia attempted to brush some of the dirt off his faded blue coat, even though the dirt and blood stains were permanently set into the fabric. He quickly gave up on the exercise, and instead, he lifted one hand to push that errant curl of hair behind his ear.

Columbia's eyes went wide, and he quickly dropped his hand, allowing the curl to fall back into place. He sat there for several seconds, continuing to stare contemplatively at the water.

_What am I doing…_

Presently, he reached forward with both hands, cupping a handful of water and splashing it over his face. Then, he rubbed the dirt and sweat off his face, and shook his head vigorously to get the water out of his hair. The water slowly settled, until once more Columbia's reflection became clear on the water's surface. This time, however, Columbia ignored it, and stood up.

He turned to face in the direction of West Point. From this distance, most of it was obscured by forest, but part of the wall overlooking the water was visible. Columbia stared in that direction, not focusing on anything in particular, however.

_It's been ten years exactly since America declared his independence,_ he thought. _Today would have been his birthday._

His gaze drifted away from the walls, and to the trees in front of him. Though those trees blocked the sight of British camps just a little ways ahead, Columbia knew they were still there.

_I wonder…_

Columbia headed back into the camp, frequently stealing glances in the direction of West Point as he walked. Once he was back inside the camp, he quickened his pace, taking the shortest route possible to the general's pavilion. When he arrived there, he found Prussia and his general poring over a map, conversing with each other in German.

British activity around West Point since Columbia's arrival had seemed to support Prussia's prediction of an imminent attack. They had surrounded the fort as much as they could from this side of the Hudson River, and rebel spies had brought reports of Cornwallis trying to call for reinforcements from the western frontier, as well as rumors from within Cornwallis' camp that the British fleet was on its way to the North American coast, thus bringing not only naval support, but, if and when they reached the shore, more troops on the ground.

The only problem was that the attack still had not happened. Neither the ships nor the western reinforcements had arrived.

"General Beilschmidt," Columbia said as he let himself into the tent.

Prussia looked up even before Columbia opened his mouth.

"What is it?"

Columbia stood next to the other nation and gestured to the map on the table in front of them.

"Any news?" Columbia asked. "From… any front?"

"Not much," Prussia said. "If Cornwallis is getting any reinforcements, they won't arrive for quite a while."

Columbia nodded. He leaned over the table, looking at the map as well. Prussia's sketches showed the British had camped no closer than a mile to any of West Point's fortifications, but their camps had made a semicircle around it, cutting off any retreat or entry from the fort in any direction other than by water. The Prussian camp was nestled close by the riverbanks just a little further south of the southernmost British camp.

"Do we need to wait that long?" Columbia asked.

Prussia smirked. "Oh, you mean attack now, and force a surrender before those reinforcements ever get here?" he said. "That's exactly what we were discussing before you came in."

Prussia traced the semicircle that the British had made with his finger. Stopping over the southernmost camp, he tapped it a couple times.

"We were expecting them to have attacked by now," he said. "But, since they haven't, we've been trying to figure out why."

"And…?"

Prussia exhaled sharply, now tapping randomly on the table's surface.

"There's no way to know for certain what they're up to," he said. "I, for one, am all for taking the risk and kicking British ass right now, but on the other hand, they might have something up their sleeve we don't know about yet."

Columbia looked at the Prussian general standing next to his country. The determined look in the eyes of both the general and the nation quickly answered Columbia's unspoken question. However, with that answer came another question. Namely, a specific timeframe.

"When do we – "

Columbia halted mid-sentence at the sound of a low and distant rumble. The clear skies outside showed no signs of an incoming summer thunderstorm; that sound could only mean one other thing.

Cannon fire.

All three men hurried outside the tent to investigate, with Prussia leading the way. Just a few paces outside the tent, Prussia's fast walk turned into a run. His running came to an abrupt halt as he almost collided with France, who had been running towards Prussia at the same time. The two nations took a step back, giving each other awkward glances.

"What's going on?" France asked.

"Where have you been?" Prussia said indignantly.

Columbia groaned in pain and clutched at his chest.

"General!" cried one of the men as he was running toward the group. "West Point is under attack!"

Prussia's expression hardened.

"Right," he said. "So this is the attack we were waiting for."

"Sir, your orders?" the soldier asked.

"Get with your regiment and wait for the order to march!"

The soldier practically spun around and ran off. Prussia ran in a different direction, barking out orders in German as he went. Columbia went back to his tent to fetch his gun, and France followed him.

"Mathieu – " France began.

Columbia went into his tent, grabbed his rifle, and came right back out, where France waited. The young nation almost took off without a word, but stopped at the sight of the roll of parchment in France's hand. Before he could ask what it was, France thrust the document into Columbia's free hand.

"Put this somewhere safe," France said.

"What is it?"

Prussia suddenly appeared again, interrupting France's reply.

"Bonnefoy! Williams! Get over here!"

Columbia shoved the paper into his satchel and ran after France as the elder nation went to rejoin Prussia.

"Hurry up," Prussia said, taking off at a brisk walk right as the other two nations came up beside him. "We need to launch our surprise attack as soon as possible, before their vanguard breaches the fort."

The pain in Columbia's chest intensified, causing him to bite down hard on his tongue to stop any potential groans or cries.

_Yes, _he thought._ Please, hurry…_

Without warning, Columbia quickened his pace, and soon overtook Prussia, tightening his grip on the rifle and gritting his teeth against the worsening pain. Prussia swore and ran to catch up.

"Hey, kid, get back here," he said. Then in a lower tone, added, "Remember what I told you."

"England will be leading the assault on the gates himself," Columbia protested. "As long as I stay in the force attacking the British rear guard, he won't find me."

Prussia was silent for a moment, but he eventually relented.

"Fine."

With that, the three nations went on the rest of the march in silence. However, that march was very short; the rear of the British army was positioned within just a few miles. The distant booming of cannon fire helped conceal the sound of the Prussian army's movement for a little bit, but as they neared the enemy line, they abandoned all attempts to remain hidden.

Columbia's rebel cavalry made the first strike. They charged in well ahead of the main army, which, being comprised mostly of infantry, still needed a few minutes to catch up to the advancing British lines. Their strike proved fast, but weak. Rebel sabers only felled a handful of soldiers before the British commanders caught on and prepared a counterstrike. Several entire companies of British soldiers fired a single huge, punishing volley at the retreating rebel cavalry, littering the field with the bodies of men and horses. The British soldiers cheered, but their celebration was short-lived, for now the rest of the combined Prussian and rebel army had caught up.

From across the field, Columbia and Prussia gave orders to prepare an answering volley. They halted several dozen meters away, muskets ready. After the order was given to fire, the British line quickly fractured as men fell by the dozens, and confusion and fear began to diffuse through their ranks.

Prussia grinned and pressed his advantage. His Prussian soldiers marched forward a little bit more and prepared a second volley. However, during that time, the British gave their answer with another volley of musket fire that cut through the Prussian ranks. Undeterred, Prussia gave the order to fire. More British soldiers fell.

While Prussia tackled the British head-on, Columbia's rebels swung at the British right. They poured their own volley of lead into the enemy ranks, and as the infantry reloaded, the cavalry charged again, their sabers cutting down whatever the muskets missed.

The British line continued to recede. Even though they had long since lost the element of surprise, the damage Columbia and Prussia's combined forces had already inflicted on the British was doing plenty to devastate the enemy's morale. After letting out a yell of triumph, Prussia pushed his troops forward yet again. Columbia's forces did the same.

Their cheers were drowned out by the deafening report of multiple cannons firing. The Prussian artillery pieces were finally in position, and had opened fire. Unfortunately, at the same time, some of the British artillery officers, in an attempt to save the rear guard from collapse, had redirected their fire from targeting West Point. Now, artillery fire from British guns tore gaping holes in the rebel line.

In the same instant that British cannons had devastated his line, Columbia dropped his rifle and fell to his knees. The wound in his chest reopened, and blood now soaked his uniform yet again. His cries went unheard under the cacophony of everything else happening on the battlefield, and his army pressed forward without him.

He tried to push himself back onto his feet, but ended up having to put his hand out in front of him to stop himself from falling flat on his face. He swore and tried again, but this time he was assisted by one of his men, who had doubled back in search of the fallen commander.

"General Williams!" the man said, hoisting Columbia up by the shoulders.

"I'm fine," Columbia said weakly. He groped about blindly with one hand. "Where is… my rifle…"

"But sir, your wound!" the soldier said. He watched the blood flowing out of Columbia's chest with increasing worry. "You'll die if you don't get that treated!"

"No… I won't…" Columbia insisted. "Arthur's not here…"

The soldier paid no attention, but produced a thick piece of cloth from his pack, which he used to compress his country's wound. Columbia winced at the touch, lost his balance, and collapsed onto his soldier's shoulder.

"General!"

Keeping one hand pressing down on the cloth, the soldier gripped Columbia's shoulder with the other, and carefully lowered him to his knees.

"Al…fred…" Columbia mumbled.

The soldier released Columbia's shoulder. Columbia swayed briefly, vainly trying to keep his balance before eventually falling onto his side. First, everything went blurry, and then it went black.

**(-)**

"Damn it, I knew this would happen."

The sight of the oncoming Prussian and rebel armies alerted England to the surprise attack even before word of it reached the vanguard. He abandoned the front line and ran back to join the commander of the rear guard, taking sweeping glances of the field to apprise himself of the situation as he went.

It was bad. The Prussians had gone straight for the center, and had already punched a big hole in it. Meanwhile, the rebels attacked the right flank, assisted by lightning fast hit-and-run tactics courtesy of their cavalry. The British rear guard desperately tried to defend itself with bayonets long enough for the artillery officers to reposition their cannons. England stood alongside one of the officers right as his men finished moving the piece.

A handful of soldiers worked together to load and prepare the shot. Seconds later, the gun fired, letting off a deafening boom while a cloud of smoke flooded the field. England looked through the smoke, seeing that the gun had hit its mark. About a dozen rebels had been felled by that single shot, and more fell alongside them as the rest of the battery unleashed its shot at the advancing rebel line.

England's face fell.

"They're not slowing down…"

Despite their losses, the rebels continued to push the British line back. England cast a glance behind him, at the fortifications of West Point, to see if the vanguard fared any better. As far as he could tell from this distance, they had not yet breached the gates.

Cursing under his breath, England ran to his army's center, to assist his troops against the Prussians. His men had fixed bayonets, and fought hand to hand to try to repel the Prussian attack. Standing a little further back, England and a handful of men that were still out of reach of Prussian bayonets aimed their muskets and fired.

England did not bother reloading his musket. And smoke had so thoroughly covered the field that he couldn't see how much, if any, help that volley had made. He fixed his bayonet to the end of his musket and charged. Leaping over one of his own men, he promptly sunk his bayonet into the chest of the first Prussian soldier to come close. The man grunted in pain, and England kicked the body away as he pulled the bayonet out of his enemy's chest. He raised his musket again, ready to impale his next target.

The yells of a familiar voice from somewhere within the Prussian ranks made England come to an abrupt halt. He surveyed the chaos in front of him, trying to locate the voice's owner.

The owner found him first. As England started to run forward again, he was tackled from the side, and he barely kept his feet under the force of his attacker's weight on his shoulder. England pushed him off, then swung with his musket, striking his attacker on the side of the head.

"_France,_" England growled.

France stumbled a bit before steadying himself, then pointed his musket at England.

"Why are you here?" England demanded. "Aren't you supposed to be with Canada, down in Maryland?"

"I could ask you the same question," France said. He ran forward, bayonet aimed at England's chest.

England leapt to the side, but before he could answer with an attack of his own, France pivoted to face him once again. Both nations ignored the fighting around them, each focusing their attention solely on the other.

"How did you get up here anyway?" France said, taking another swipe with his musket, which England dodged.

"Wouldn't you like to know."

England went on the attack, and France blocked England's musket with his own. Then England followed up with a kick to France's gut, causing the Frenchman to stumble backwards a few paces. Still bent forward, France coughed as if trying to breathe after having the wind knocked out of him. England pressed his attack, not realizing France had deliberately feigned that moment of weakness. France blocked England's next blow, shoved England's musket aside, then, releasing one hand from the grip of his own musket, punched England in the jaw.

Unfortunately, before France could follow up that attack, Prussian soldiers charged past him, and one accidentally bumped into him, causing him to temporarily lose balance and focus. In the two seconds it took France to recover, England also recovered, and now the two nations stood several feet apart, muskets aimed at each other.

Behind England, the British cannons fired a second round at the Prussian and rebel armies. The Prussian unit closest to France and England's position took a direct hit. While the resulting shrapnel narrowly missed both nations, it was enough to distract them, and they took their attention away from each other for just a second. England recovered first, and took the split-second opportunity to retreat back into his own ranks.

France yelled incoherently in frustration, aiming his musket at the British line. But he never fired; just as soon as he had lifted the weapon, he lowered it again, cursing under his breath in French as he did so.

For a minute, he just stood there, musket lowered, watching the battle in front of him. Then, as if the notion had belatedly occurred to him, France began reloading his musket.

"Where does he think he's going?" he muttered to himself as he pulled the ramrod out, tamping the musket ball all the way down the barrel. "I don't think they've breached the gate, and the rebels are advancing on their…"

France stopped. His grip on the ramrod went slack as he stared down the field. Columbia's rebels had pressed surprisingly far forward, given the severity of their losses. Columbia himself was in that mess somewhere, leading the rebel charge.

But England had fled in that direction.

France hurriedly put the ramrod away and broke into a run, headed straight for the rebel line.


	26. Chapter 26

**And here is part two of the climactic battle! I'm finally almost done with this story; just a few more chapters to go...**

* * *

The Prussian and rebel assault slowed down as British artillery rapidly thinned their ranks, but with the surprise attack having relieved the pressure from the gates of the fort, Lafayette's forces began pouring out, assisting their allies from the opposite side of the battlefield. Unfortunately, with the field still clouded with smoke, the appearance of Lafayette's troops went unnoticed for the first several minutes after the gate opened.

But if the rebels saw the change in the field, the battle would effectively be over.

With such a small window, England frantically scrambled to rally his troops. Even though a surprise attack had been expected, its unexpected size had reduced England's contingency plan to a desperation maneuver.

The British artillery fired another round at the rebels. Each gun fired within less than a second of the gun before it, resulting in a continuous rain of lead that concentrated on the rebel center. The resulting hole in the line split the rebel army in half. And before they could consolidate, the British soldiers rallied and charged.

England stayed with the artillery to reload his musket. A simple task of only fifteen seconds' length became torture as his ever dwindling window of time pressed on him. When he finished, he shoved the ramrod back into place and sprinted down after his army. They had charged down what used to be the rebel center, and with their bayonets, made a wedge to drive the two halves of the rebel army even further apart. On the slope behind him, England's artillery prepared another round, this time aimed at the extreme sides of the rebel army. In a minute, British bayonets would push more rebels into the exact spots the artillery were aiming for, right as the cannons would open fire.

_They won't be able to go on with such high casualties,_ England thought. _Even if they maintain morale, they simply won't have enough men to be able to break my lines._

"Fall back!"

The command echoed several times throughout the rebel ranks. Their general, instead of allowing his army to be pushed apart, was trying to regroup.

England swore.

"After them!" he shouted. "Keep pushing them back!"

The rebels fired a volley at the British before retreating further. However, that volley did not even slow the British down. They continued to pursue, and the rebels continued to flee, but backwards, rather than to the sides.

England halted mid-run. He stole a glance behind him, at the batteries of artillery as they prepared to fire. Just as he turned, the first cannon fired. After it, the rest quickly followed. While the barrage didn't inflict anywhere near the casualties England had expected, his army nevertheless had the rebel army in retreat at last. The Prussian army was still a problem, however. Worse, Lafayette's forces were also inflicting heavy casualties from the other side of the field.

The wind pushed the smoke clouds in the direction of the rebel retreat, obscuring their view of the field, which was rapidly changing in their favor. However, as long as they remained unaware, England held onto hope that his desperation attack could turn the tide of battle. Cornwallis had pulled in the army's extreme left to help combat Lafayette and the Prussians. By now, the gates of West Point were completely forgotten in the mad scramble to fight off the rebels and their allies from three sides.

Unexpectedly, the rebel commanders suddenly called out a halt. Nonplussed British commanders halted their regiments as well. Meanwhile, further up the field, Prussian artillery opened fire on the British left. The British responded with their own barrage of cannon and musket fire.

On England's side of the field, commanders on both sides gave orders to prepare volleys of musket fire. England jumped in with the nearest company of soldiers and readied his musket. He took a quick, sweeping glance of the field while waiting for the order to fire.

The two armies stood dangerously close to one another. There was no way anyone could miss at that range.

"Fire!"

England was temporarily deafened by the report of over a thousand muskets firing at once, and smoke engulfed the field. Immediately following the sound of the muskets came the cries of scores of wounded and dying men. Having somehow escaped injury, England forced himself to ignore the screams and reload. He, and the rest of his men that remained standing, readied their muskets for another volley.

Barely visible through the smoke, there was suddenly a surge of forward movement in the rebel ranks. A few seconds later, after the wind had helped to dissipate the smoke a little, the rebel line became clearly visible. Standing at the forefront of their army, one of their soldiers stepped forward and lifted his rifle.

Curiously, the huge bloodstains all over his front made this man look like he should have been among the fallen. Yet he stood firm, eyes narrowed in determination.

"Take aim!" cried the British regimental commanders.

England pointed his musket. The soldier turned slightly, and he and England locked gazes. The sight nearly made England's heart stop.

Cornflower eyes. Messy blond hair. And a horribly bloodstained blue uniform.

England froze, staring unblinkingly at the blood on the younger nation's uniform. As he stood there, momentarily paralyzed as it were, his mind suddenly went back six years, to that fatal moment on the grounds of West Point. Suddenly, this was not Canada standing in front of him. It was America.

_Alfred…? I… what have I done?_

"Fire!"

"_Angleterre, no!"_

Hundreds of muskets fired at once, and smoke engulfed the field once more.

**(-)**

Although he was not out for very long, Columbia nevertheless woke up alone, surrounded only by the bodies of fallen rebels. The soldier that had assisted him earlier had disappeared. On moving his arm to try to push himself up, he brushed the muzzle of his rifle. He wrapped his fingers tightly around the weapon and pulled it closer to him, then lifted his head in an attempt to get a better look at his surroundings.

Although the armies themselves were not visible from his position, the sounds of battle quickly indicated where his army had gone. Fortunately, the gunfire and shouting sounded close enough that Columbia would not have very far to walk to catch up with his army.

Using the rifle for support, he pushed himself up slowly into a seated position to inspect his wound. The rebel soldier had clearly done his best to stanch the bleeding, but even the improvised bandaging was now thoroughly saturated with blood.

_He must have given up,_ Columbia thought. _Thought I was dead, or so close as to make no difference._

At that, he hurriedly pushed himself fully upright. But the dizzy spell that struck almost immediately made him regret it. He leaned heavily on his rifle and waited for the world around him to stop spinning. It took about a minute for him to stabilize and everything to come into full focus. He started walking forward, but kept a slow pace.

The wind had blown all the musket and cannon smoke in his army's direction, obscuring much of the British and Prussian lines, and making the gates of West Point completely invisible from his position. As Columbia neared the battle, another, more disturbing development became apparent. His men were retreating.

"Oh no…"

Columbia looked down at the wounds in his chest and abdomen. Blood still flowed freely from the wounds, yet at the same time, the vertigo had subsided, and his pulse had strengthened from when he first woke up a few minutes earlier.

_Maybe the army is just regrouping,_ Columbia thought.

He continued walking toward his army, while his army continued to retreat in his direction. Soon enough, Columbia rejoined his men. As he made his way to the front line, the regimental commanders began ordering their men to halt. The men halted, but Columbia kept going forward through his men's ranks, looking for the commander on the front line.

All around him, soldiers aimed their muskets at the British. Columbia halted, and took a sweeping glance over the enemy line. A weak groan escaped his throat, in anticipation of what he knew was coming.

Commanders on both sides shouted the order to fire. Columbia just stood still as the smoke cloud from the musket volley completely obscured his vision. His wounds throbbed with pain as men fell by the dozens. The dizzy spell returned. Nevertheless, after that volley, Columbia began to walk forward, and was quickly followed by his men.

A gust of wind helped dissipate the smoke from the musket volley. Columbia briefly halted for a few seconds, until he was steady enough on his feet to take another couple of steps forward, and then he lifted his rifle. On the British side of the field, their commanders yelled out the order to take aim. Hundreds of British muskets were then pointed back at Columbia and his rebels.

Columbia turned as he surveyed the British line. A split second later, he froze, having just locked gazes with the last person he wanted to see.

England.

Columbia tightened his grip on the rifle, but his legs suddenly grew weak. The pain in his chest intensified, right as the area around him became completely enshrouded in smoke. He stumbled a bit, eyes squeezed shut. Meanwhile, the sounds of battle grew distant.

_Oh God… not like this… six years… America…_

The battle sounds returned with a vengeance, but somehow seemed different upon their return. Aside from the sudden silence from both sides' artillery, there seemed to be a great deal more shouting along with the gunfire and wounded screams instead.

Columbia's eyes flew open. Though something seemed off about the field, he never got the chance to get a good look, for England was still standing there, musket raised. And no sooner had Columbia opened his eyes than England fired his musket, and the shot struck Columbia right in the heart.

A scream escaped his throat, but something about his voice didn't sound right. It sounded like someone else's.

Both of Columbia's hands flew to his chest, and he heard the light thud of his rifle hitting the ground. He tried to reach down and pick the weapon back up, but realized with horror that his body was no longer listening to his commands. Instead, his hands remained clutching his chest, where blood spurted out with every beat of his rapidly failing heart.

_No! Please, no… I can't die! Six years… all in vain…_

His eyes looked up at England, who had dropped his musket, and stared back at him with a horrified expression on his face. England's lips moved, but whatever he said was drowned out by the gunfire around them.

What little strength had been left in Columbia's legs vanished, and he dropped to his knees. Despite his desperate effort to stay up, his body continued to ignore him. He fell face down in the grass.

He heard the rapid footfalls of someone running towards him, and presently, that someone grabbed him by the shoulders and turned him onto his back. Columbia's head turned to look at the individual.

_America?!_

He tried to say his brother's name out loud, but his body still wouldn't listen to him. Instead, he lay there, totally helpless as his dying body continued to act without his volition.

"You… lied to me… you said I won the war… that I'd be free…"

_What…?_

The words had come from his own mouth, but the voice sounded like America's. America, who was now kneeling right next to him, still holding him by the shoulders, widened his eyes in alarm at the statement.

"Don't be ridiculous," America said, the panic clear in his voice. "I wasn't lying… You'll be fine; you've survived things like this before… come on…"

As America spoke, his voice seemed to grow distant. The sounds of battle also became muffled. Columbia's vision went blurry for a brief second before his eyes fell slowly shut. He panicked, and redoubled his efforts to speak, or even just open his eyes, but at this point, his body had finally given out, and stopped moving entirely. Even his heart had stopped beating. Death was mere seconds away now.

_All in vain…_

All of his senses were quickly fading from him. He just barely registered his body being vigorously shaken as America tried to wake him up, and when America cried out, his voice sounded so distant as to be almost inaudible.

"Come on!" he said. "Get up! _Please!"_

_Forgive me, brother…_

After that, the world went totally silent.

**(-)**

France caught up to the rebel force, but his panic only escalated when he tried to seek Columbia out among their ranks. By the time he reached them, British artillery had destroyed much of the army's center, and the rest had been forced into retreat. He searched frantically through the chaos, but the younger nation was nowhere to be found.

Cursing under his breath, France followed the rebels in their retreat. As he went, he ran into one of the regimental commanders.

"What is going on?" France asked.

"We're pulling back to regroup," the officer replied.

France glanced behind him at their British pursuers, then rejoined the officer and his regiment. They covered several dozen meters before someone called out a halt. Other commanders called their regiments to halt as well, and eventually, the entire rebel army had stopped.

Before the order was even given, France began loading his musket. He worked quickly, and frequently stole glances into the rebel army for any sign of Columbia. Unfortunately, from where he stood, in the middle of a regiment of the army's extreme right, he had a rather poor view of the rest of the army. He bit his lip and aimed his musket with the rebel soldiers.

"Fire!" the commander yelled.

Both sides unleashed their musket fire. France then immediately took off running, headed for the rebel army's center. At full sprint, he got there in under a minute.

Meanwhile, on either side of him, both sides prepared another volley. France stopped in his tracks and looked around again.

He noticed Columbia first. The younger country appeared to be bleeding heavily from wounds to his abdomen and chest, yet was still able to stand upright and aim his rifle without help. France then glanced at the British line, and his heart plummeted.

England was right there. And he had his musket pointed at Columbia.

Without even bothering to reload his musket, France broke into a run. He only made five paces before someone gave the order to fire.

"_Angleterre, no!"_

France's cry was drowned out by the sound of musket fire, and smoke obscured his vision. He halted yet again, waiting anxiously for the smoke to clear. His patience only held out for a few seconds, by which time the wind had cleared away much of the smoke. Then, France started walking forward, eyes fixed on the spot where Columbia had been.

When he couldn't find him right away, France sprinted forward yet again. At last, he made it to Columbia's position, but choked at the sight that greeted him.

The younger nation lay spread-eagled on his back, eyes glassy and unfocused. His right hand still held tightly to his rifle, while his left rested on his bloodstained chest.

"Mathieu!"

France turned his head sharply, quickly locating England, who had not moved. The British nation lowered his musket slightly, staring wide-eyed, not at France, but at Columbia.

Neither nation paid attention as the rebels fixed bayonets and charged the British position. The British soldiers fixed bayonets as well, but took a defensive stance. England temporarily disappeared from France's view as the rebels pushed the battle back towards the fort. France returned his attention to Columbia.

"Oh God, Mathieu… why?" France said weakly as he blinked back tears. "It's not enough for Arthur to kill his own brother, now he must take mine?"

Laying his musket aside, he knelt beside the younger nation, and a small movement suddenly caught his attention. France blinked, and watched closely for a moment.

It was a small, almost imperceptible movement, but Columbia's chest rose and fell occasionally. France's heart raced. He reached for Columbia's hand, pulling gently in an attempt to elicit a response.

Columbia blinked, but otherwise did not respond to the touch of France's hand. Although the movement of his chest indicated steady breathing, the dull, distant look in his eyes too closely resembled the looks in the eyes of slain soldiers nearby. France released Columbia's hand and grabbed his shoulder, and shook him. Columbia's arm twitched, and his lips moved, but no sound came out.

"Wake up!" France pleaded. He sighed and took another look around him, but immediately regretted it.

England emerged from the battle, and approached France and Columbia. France let go of Columbia's shoulder and fixed England with a death glare.

"Is he…?" England asked.

France seized his musket, pointing it at England.

"Get away from him," France snarled, slowly rising to his feet, keeping his musket trained on the other nation.

A single tear streamed down England's face.

"France, please…"

France took half a step forward. He did not speak; the anger and grief in his eyes said it all. England threw his musket down and held up his hands in surrender.

"Enough!" England said, as more tears began to fall. "Put the gun down… please… just let me see my brother."

Before France could reply, both nations were distracted by a sudden gasping noise. France turned and looked down.

Columbia was starting to show more pronounced signs of life. His arms and legs twitched occasionally. The gasping noise, it seemed, was his trying to take a full, deep breath. He blinked several times as his eyes slowly regained focus.

"Oh, thank God," England breathed. "He's still alive…"

England's voice prompted France to immediately turn around. England had started to take a step forward, but the threatening look on France's face made him freeze mid-step. Taking another couple of steps forward himself, France then positioned himself in between Columbia and England, keeping his musket raised and his glare fixed on the British nation.

Columbia groaned and rolled onto his side, letting go of his rifle as he moved. His own movement startled him, and he made a kicking motion with his legs, while he seized a fistful of grass in each hand, staring at the ground in bewilderment. England watched the display with a similar expression on his face. Meanwhile, France, not wanting to let his guard down, could only afford a quick glance.

Oddly, as Columbia recovered his physical strength, he acted increasingly panicked and confused. Upon getting up on his knees, he placed a hand over his heart, and just stared off into the distance with a confused expression on his face. Then, he rose gingerly to his feet, turning his head quickly in every direction, looking around wildly. He looked right past England and France at least twice before finally stopping, staring directly at them.

The three nations stood in awkward silence for several seconds. Then, without warning, Columbia strode forward, ignoring France and going straight to England.

"You…" Columbia said.

His gaze drifted from England's face to England's musket, which lay forgotten on the ground next to its owner. He frowned at it, looking closely at the weapon's flintlock before suddenly reaching down and picking it up.

"Canada," England said nervously. "What are – "

Columbia spun around and aimed the musket at the trees off in the distance, and pulled the trigger. The shot fired, landing harmlessly in the grass somewhere. Columbia dropped the weapon and faced England again.

"What happened?" Columbia demanded.

"What do you mean, 'what happened'?" England asked.

Columbia seized England by the collar, prompting a shocked France to drop his gun and reach for Columbia's arm to pull him away. Without even looking at the French nation, Columbia swatted France's hand away with his free arm, and proceeded to drag England several paces away. When England resisted, Columbia just tightened his grip.

"Right here, at West Point, six years ago," Columbia said. "Tell me what happened!"

"I don't know… what there is to tell," England said, nearly choking on his words against Columbia's vise-like grip. "You… already know…"

"I know you didn't tell me the whole story," Columbia said. "So tell me right now."

All England managed was a choking noise. Belatedly realizing just how strong his grip was on the other nation, Columbia let go of England's collar, and the latter took several steps backward, taking a moment to catch his breath.

Before Columbia could resume the interrogation, someone approached the three nations, from the direction of the battle, which had gone on without them. Now that their attention had suddenly been drawn in that direction, they realized from the cheering – and cessation of gunfire – that the battle was actually over.

"Hey!" called a familiar German-accented voice. "What are you guys doing? The party's back that way!"

Prussia strode over to join his fellow nations, grinning broadly and jerking his thumb back in the direction of West Point. He abruptly stopped, however, and his grin faded upon seeing Columbia's wounds.

"Kid, I told you to stay off the front line," Prussia said. He shot an accusatory glare at England. "And what the _hell_ are you doing here? Get up there with your general and surrender like the loser you are."

England returned the glare, but said nothing. Columbia gave up on the interrogation and went back to pick up his rifle. With the gun in hand, he rejoined Prussia, and France quickly went to grab his musket as well. England's musket, however, would lay forgotten in the grass, for Columbia, France, and Prussia escorted the unarmed England back to the gates of West Point.

France and Prussia walked on either side of England, while Columbia hung to the rear, walking with his head lowered.

_What I saw can't have been what actually happened to me,_ Columbia thought. _It ended just like that nightmare… what is it?_


	27. Chapter 27

General Cornwallis' surrender at West Point effectively ended the conflict in the northern colonies. The British ships carrying reinforcements found their way blocked by the French fleet, and so diverted their route, heading south to the ports in Virginia and South Carolina. However, those reinforcements would not make land for several weeks, leaving Columbia with a brief window of time to rest and recuperate his losses.

The first thing Columbia did the morning after the battle was find a clean shirt and coat. Then, he stopped by the mess tent for breakfast. He sat among a group of Lafayette's men, only half-listening to their conversation about yesterday's battle. As amusing as it was to listen to the men's boasts, something else from that battle kept distracting him. Though he had tried questioning England about it right there on the battlefield, the interrogation never got anywhere. Fortunately, after the battle ended, England had fallen into rebel custody once again.

Columbia drained his canteen and rose from his seat. The soldiers, still engaged in their conversation, paid no attention as Columbia put his canteen away and quietly left the hall, headed straight for the general's headquarters.

On his way there, France found him and flagged him down. Columbia halted just a few yards outside the mess hall, while France ran over to join him.

"Is something wrong?" Columbia asked.

"Lafayette just sent a missive to General Hamilton, informing him of Cornwallis' surrender," France said.

Columbia nodded thoughtfully.

"Will you return to the southern front?" France asked.

"Not yet," Columbia said.

France gave him a quizzical look. "When your wounds have healed…?"

Columbia put a hand over his chest, pressing slightly on the bandages hidden under his shirt.

"That would take too long."

France did a double take.

"I will only stay for a few days," Columbia went on. "Then I will return to Maryland."

"I see…" France trailed off, looking somewhat distant for a moment. "Have you met with General Lafayette since yesterday?"

"I'm on my way to see him right now."

"Ah."

With that, Columbia continued on his way. France, meanwhile, stayed rooted to the spot for a moment as he watched the younger nation disappear around a corner. Eventually, however, he forced himself to return to reality, and began walking towards the barracks.

Meanwhile, as Columbia neared Lafayette's headquarters, the door opened and several men, including Lafayette, emerged. General Cornwallis and England followed the French general, escorted by a handful of armed rebel guards. Columbia walked faster.

"Wait!" he called.

England and Lafayette turned simultaneously. Of the two, Lafayette looked much more shocked at the sight.

"General Williams!" he said. "You're supposed to be on bed rest for your wounds!"

"I'm fine," Columbia insisted, despite the intense pain in his chest telling him otherwise. He looked pointedly at England. "I'd like to have a word…"

Lafayette frowned. "With General Kirkland?"

"Yes."

England blinked, and a muscle jerked in his cheek.

"Very well," Lafayette said. He gestured at the door, and ordered two of the four guards to stay, while the other two accompanied him and Cornwallis as they headed out onto the fort's compound.

Columbia stepped inside Lafayette's headquarters. As England followed, the two guards started to follow him, but Columbia held up a hand to stop them.

"Wait outside," he said. "And make sure no one except General Lafayette himself is allowed to enter."

The guards took positions on either side of the door as Columbia closed it. He then took a seat at Lafayette's desk, while England sat in the same chair he had sat in just moments earlier. A few seconds of awkward silence elapsed before either nation said anything, but it was England who eventually broke the silence.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I was hoping you could explain something," Columbia replied.

England's eyes narrowed.

"Explain what?"

"Something I saw yesterday, after you shot me…"

"I never shot you," England interrupted. "You must have been hit by one of my men…"

"I know you didn't shoot," Columbia said. "That's the thing I don't understand. Because I know I saw you shoot me."

England sighed and shook his head.

"I just told you, you probably just – "

"And after I fell, America showed up and tried to get me back on my feet."

England froze, and his glare vanished.

"Canada, we both know that's impossible."

"It gets worse," Columbia continued. "As he held me, I said something strange… I told him he had lied to me about winning the war."

"What?"

"He started to panic. He shook me, screaming and pleading with me to get up. But I couldn't move. My heart stopped… I thought I had died."

England's heart lurched.

"Is that all you saw?" he asked. He paused and tried to swallow, but suddenly found it difficult to do.

_This can't be right,_ he thought. _But it sounds uncannily similar…_

Columbia stood up, and looked England directly in the eye.

"I've heard his cries before, in my nightmares," Columbia said. "It plays out the same way, every time. I'm always lying on my back, unable to see or move, and I can hear his voice, pleading desperately with… someone. Like they were dying. At first, I thought that someone was me.

"But yesterday, I finally saw the rest of the nightmare. I heard myself speak, but the voice wasn't mine. It's America's. The person he's pleading with… is himself."

Columbia trailed off for a moment, looking distant as he slowly shook his head. Meanwhile, despite the cool temperature of the morning, England was starting to sweat. Even more unfortunate for him, he had no time to think of a response, for Columbia quickly regained his composure, and fixed him with an accusatory glare.

"What did I see?" he asked. "I know it's no mere nightmare, so what is it?"

"How would you expect me to know?"

"Because I can see the guilt written all over your face," Columbia said flatly. "That thing I saw yesterday had something to do with what happened here six years ago, didn't it?"

_How could he possibly have seen what happened… and through America's eyes, even… did the repaired time travel spell do something after all? But if I tell him, I'd have to tell him about the other timeline as well…_

England's hands started to shake, so he hid his hands under the desk, gripping the hem of his shirt to try to stop the trembling. Across the desk from him, Columbia impatiently tapped a finger on its surface.

"Tell me, England!" the younger nation said imperiously.

_Damn it… does it even matter anymore? _

"…Yes."

Columbia visibly relaxed. "Then, what happened?"

"You saw part of the battle," England began. "That scene you described is part of what happened to America six years ago."

"But who is the dying man America was pleading with?" Columbia demanded. "Why does he have America's voice, and what did he mean when he said America had lied to him?"

England took a deep breath to steel himself.

"Because the dying man _is_ America," he said. "That dream was a vision of your brother's last moments. The America you saw was his counterpart from another world."

Columbia did a double take.

"Another world?" he said. "How is that possible?"

"Some sufficiently powerful magic can open doorways to alternate worlds," England said. "The other America was brought here by such magic."

Columbia's hands curled into fists. In just two steps, he circled around the table to stand next to England.

"Why did you never tell me this?!" he demanded. "What if I had run into him, not knowing that – "

"He was taken back to his world almost immediately after Alfred died," England interrupted. "You never would have seen him."

Columbia let out a heavy sigh and unclenched his fists. The room fell uncomfortably quiet as Columbia took a step back and ran his fingers through his hair, temporarily lost for words. Lowering his gaze to the floor, England waited. A few seconds later, Columbia broke the silence.

"What about my other question?" he said. "He said the other America lied to him about winning the war; what does that mean?"

"The other America must have told him at some point that the Americans would win the war for their independence," England said, having to slowly force the words out.

"Why would – " Columbia began, but quickly cut himself off. "The outcome was different in the other world, wasn't it? The other America not only survived, but he _won_ the war?"

"Yes," England said. He raised a hand quickly, thinking to cut off an interruption. "Now, I know what you're thinking, but it changes nothing. That America is not your brother."

"Oh, I know," Columbia said coldly. "He's my counterpart's brother. But my counterpart still _has_ a brother. You buried mine."

"Canada…"

"Stop calling me that!"

England visibly tensed up in his chair. Several seconds of silence elapsed before he finally relented.

"Columbia," he said. "That's your new name, isn't it?"

Columbia gave a small nod, and both countries relaxed a bit. However, even though his body appeared relaxed, England still kept his gaze averted from Columbia's. It took him another brief pause before he finally risked looking his estranged colony in the eye.

"I'm sorry," he said. "I would give anything to have America back, to take back what I did six years ago, but I can't. What's done is done, and not even magic can undo it."

"And how would you know that?"

Right as the words left his mouth, Columbia inwardly winced, as a sudden pang struck in his chest. Covering it up by assuming an annoyed expression and giving a dismissive wave of his hand, he returned to his side of the desk.

"Never mind," he said.

Though his curiosity was piqued at the sudden change in Columbia's demeanor, England fought back the urge to comment. By this point, it seemed apparent what the young nation was doing – or rather, trying to avoid doing. England bit his lip, concern etched onto his face. Their conversation came to another halt; with both Columbia unwilling to ask, and England unwilling to answer.

As if abandoning the conversation completely, Columbia headed to the door, pushing it open a couple of inches. He began exchanging hushed words with the guards outside, while continuing to watch England out of the corner of his eye. At the same time, Lafayette's muffled voice joined the sounds of activity from outside the headquarters. The young general had returned from his errand.

Columbia pushed the door open a little further, but retreated one step back into the room, having concluded his conversation with the guards. He lingered by the doorway a few moments longer, waiting for Lafayette to join him. Three sets of footsteps approached the door of Lafayette's headquarters, one of which belonged to Lafayette himself, and the other two turned out to be France and Prussia. The three men entered the room in quick succession; however, France and Prussia stayed by the threshold while Lafayette went over to his desk. With a small hand gesture, he signaled for England to stand up, which England did.

"Your men are being sent to where they can be better accommodated," Lafayette said. "Until the end of the war, that is. Once we obtain a total surrender, you will be free to evacuate the country and return to Britain."

England's throat closed, and he hesitated with his reply.

"What of General Cornwallis, and myself?" he asked.

"This way."

Lafayette gestured again, then promptly turned and left. He halted just outside the door as England caught up, and then he, England, and the two guards began walking away. Columbia, France, and Prussia watched them retreat and ultimately disappear from their sight.

Prussia turned his head slightly, looking pointedly at Columbia.

"What are you going to do now?" he asked.

"I need to return to Maryland," Columbia replied. "I've defeated England, but the war's not over yet. The Loyalist Confederation still stands against us…"

He trailed off, looking distant. Then, without warning, he walked hurriedly out the still open door, leaving his fellow nations to exchange confused glances.

**(-)**

Columbia was rarely seen around West Point over the next several days. At the advice of the doctors, he spent much of his time resting, and as his wounds rapidly healed, he kept changing the bandages regularly, even after he no longer needed them. In this period of rest, Columbia took the time to take inventory. As he sat in his tent, going through his equipment, he found a sealed document in his satchel, which he quickly realized was the same document France had given to him just before the battle a week ago.

Shifting his position on the cot, Columbia allowed his satchel to drop to the floor. He broke the seal on the document, and unfurled the parchment, only to abruptly stop upon seeing the phrase "United States of Columbia" in large print across the top.

_Wait a minute, this looks familiar…_

He reread the line across the top.

"The Unanimous Declaration of the Ten United States of Columbia…"

Columbia frowned, and unfurled the paper the rest of the way. Skipping the main document, he looked at the bottom of the page. His eyebrows shot up.

Nearly forty signatures adorned the bottom of the page. Unlike the last copy he had received, this one had been properly signed by all the delegates from every colony – except for the four southern colonies that had since pledged loyalty to the Crown. And the signatures were neatly arranged by colony; he looked at each cluster of signatures, quietly noting each one.

Maryland. Delaware. Pennsylvania. New Jersey. New York. Connecticut. Rhode Island. Massachusetts. New Hampshire. Canada.

Returning his attention to the top of the document, he looked at the date. The first of July, 1786.

_France got this here in three days,_ Columbia thought. _Word must be spreading like wildfire through the colonies already._

He spent a few more moments looking the new Declaration over before putting it away in his satchel. There would be plenty of time to read it in its entirety later. As of the present moment, however, Columbia had just spent a week recovering from his wounds, and a growing sense of urgency pressed him to rejoin the fight in the South as quickly as possible.

Word of the British defeat at West Point would definitely reach the Loyalist lines long before Columbia himself. Optimistically, the news of the loss of their most powerful military support would devastate Loyalist morale, and General Hamilton could push his way across the Potomac and through the southern colonies with minimal resistance.

Tossing the satchel once again on the floor, Columbia rose from his cot to change clothes. He stripped off his old shirt, inspecting his wounds briefly before donning a new shirt. Over the shirt he pulled on his faded blue coat, and exchanged his shoes for riding boots. Then, picking up and stuffing his satchel full of several days' worth of rations, Columbia seized his rifle and promptly left the tent. On his way to the stables, he left a word with one of Lafayette's adjutants, to inform the French general that Columbia was leaving immediately.

France and Prussia already knew about Columbia's plans. While Prussia showed no intention of leaving West Point, France had seemed agitated ever since the battle. Still, during the whole time Columbia spent recovering, France never pestered him about his plans to return to Maryland.

As Columbia entered the stables, he took a sweeping glance around him, not looking for anything in particular. His pace slowed considerably as he began to walk across the stable floor.

It took him only a few minutes to saddle up. Once he was ready, he wasted no time in riding out of the stable at a gallop. He rode out of West Point, making his way just a short way along the dirt road before slowing the horse down to a trot. Turning his head, he looked out at the forest.

_I'll return when the war is over…_

Then, digging his heels into the horse's side, Columbia rode south, once more at the gallop.

**(-)**

After an uneventful ride through New Jersey and part of Maryland, Columbia stopped a significant distance out from where he had heard Hamilton's army was camped. Spending the night in an inn in a small town, Columbia rode out the following morning to do some scouting. The night before, he had overheard some talk from the locals about Loyalist and rebel movements in the area.

He left town before sunrise, covering a few miles before the first rays of sunlight began peeking over the horizon. As he neared the Potomac River, lines of tents from an army camp became visible on the fields ahead. Still too far away to clearly identify the camp, Columbia rode closer, but slowed his pace, hugging the thickets and brush to stay hidden. He edged gradually closer, until he was just close enough to identify the flags flying in the camp.

The thirteen-striped Patriot flag flew nearby General Hamilton's flag, just outside the commander's pavilion. Columbia brought his horse to a halt, surveying the rest of the camp. Tent streets stretched along the small plain, and upon looking further out from the river, closer to a nearby hill, part of the supply line was visible. Although he could detect occasional, sporadic movement through the camp, it was unclear what exactly was happening.

Columbia redirected his attention to the river itself. The fog would not lift until the sun was up, but he scanned the shoreline in the opposite direction from Hamilton's camp, searching for any trace of the Loyalist army.

_There's no way they would camp this close,_ he told himself, even as his scan of the area confirmed the notion. If they were nearby, they had to be encamped somewhere beyond his field of vision, still hidden in the fog.

He hesitated for a few seconds, taking one last sweeping glance over the plain before deciding to go on the move again. However, a movement out of the corner of his eye suddenly caught his attention, and he turned to look, tightening his grip on the reins.

A lone figure, riding on horseback, emerged from a thicket further south of Columbia's position. Its rider pushed the horse at a gallop, and they headed further south. Heart already pounding, Columbia backed his own horse a few paces further into the cover of the woods, but at the same time, tried to get a closer look at this mysterious rider. All he could make out from this distance was that the person had to be quite short in stature, given the height he sat on the horse.

_What is the Loyalist boy doing this close to Hamilton's camp?!_ Columbia thought.

The mysterious horse and rider disappeared into the forest, leaving Columbia torn as to what to do. He suppressed an impulse to pursue after them, but subsequently was hesitant to approach Hamilton's camp, lest he give away his position – if he hadn't been seen already. Lingering in the cover of the bush for a little longer, Columbia looked out at the forested area to the south, in the direction the other rider had gone.

"What…?"

Just visible in the early morning light, a cloud of smoke rose from something several miles to the south of the rebel camp. Whatever it was, it appeared to be on the other side of the river. And it was much too large to be a simple campfire.

Nudging the horse, Columbia went back on the move, and risked approaching the rebel camp. Activity inside the camp had markedly increased since the brief distraction with the other rider. As Columbia neared the tents, it became very clear that the men were not simply going about the morning routine, but were preparing for battle.

Columbia rode into the camp, and headed straight for Hamilton's pavilion. He dismounted right as the general emerged from the pavilion, accompanied by a couple of officers. Hamilton shot his country a double take.

"General Williams?" he said. "I thought you had returned to New York?"

"I just returned from New York," Columbia replied. He frowned. "Did you ever receive news…?"

"Of the victory at West Point – yes," Hamilton said. "I just didn't realize you had planned on returning to this front."

"The war's not over yet."

Hamilton sighed and nodded, casting a glance southward.

"If this attack goes as planned, it might be," he said.

"Sir," Columbia said, his voice suddenly urgent. "I saw a Loyalist scout on my way here, but he fled south…"

Columbia's gaze shifted southward as well. He pointed at the smoke cloud.

"What is that?"

Hamilton did not answer right away, but stared at the cloud for a second, narrowing his eyes at it.

"Our signal," he said. Turning to the other officers, he added, "Move your regiments out."

The officers saluted, gave the general a "Yes, sir!" and quickly dispersed.

"What is going on?" Columbia asked as the last officer disappeared around the corner of a nearby tent.

"We've sent in spies to sabotage the Loyalist supply depots to distract and harass them," Hamilton replied. He pointed at the smoke cloud. "That fire is our signal to move in and attack."

Columbia nodded, and a smile tugged at his lips.

_If we're successful, this will cripple and demoralize them; we could push them back over the Potomac easily,_ he thought. _I could force a surrender before their British reinforcements arrive, and take back the southern colonies. Finally, I can end the war…_


	28. Chapter 28

**Author's Note: I apologize for this being so late! Hopefully, once I finish my finals, I can put up the last little bit a lot quicker. This is just about done; I'll probably add on one last chapter/epilogue type thing and that's it.**

**I really hope this is worth the wait.**

* * *

As Hamilton had said, the rebel spies had done their work to sabotage the Loyalist supply line. By the time Hamilton's army engaged the Loyalist army, the Loyalist depot had burned almost completely to the ground. With their supplies gone, and foreseeing the rebel trap, over half of the Loyalist army fled several miles south before Hamilton's army caught up. Those men that had stayed, surrendered without a fight.

Noticeably absent from among the captured Loyalists was the Loyalist personification himself. Despite thoroughly searching the entire area, and inspecting the prisoners himself, Columbia could not find any trace of the younger nation.

"Did he even return to the camp at all…?" Columbia muttered to himself as he rode back to Hamilton's position to deliver the report. "He might have fled south to gather reinforcements…"

Subsequent interrogations of captured the Loyalist militiamen seemed to indicate that British reinforcements were on their way from Richmond, and even more would soon arrive at the port in Charleston. At this, Columbia volunteered to take a small detachment of light cavalry on a scouting mission to confirm if any British were indeed en route to their position. Hamilton granted the request, and Columbia immediately rode out with the cavalry, still carrying his rifle, though it was slung over his back.

They rode until nightfall on their search, and, at dusk, when they were almost about to give up and return to report back, one cavalryman anxiously signaled the rest. As Columbia and the rest of the men joined him, the cavalryman pointed them to his finding.

Off in the distance, part of an encampment was visible; illuminated by a number of little pinpricks of light, from lanterns. Taking a spyglass out of his saddlebag, Columbia halted and took a closer look at the encampment. He looked through the lens, carefully scanning the whole area ahead.

British soldiers bustled about the encampment, which appeared to still be in the process of being set up. The cavalry captain pulled out a spyglass of his own, surveying the British camp as well.

"Looks like barely over a hundred men," he said.

_This can't be right. Why such a small force?_ Columbia thought. He lowered his spyglass.

"We need to report back to General Hamilton," he said, putting the spyglass away.

The captain nodded, putting his spyglass away as well, then passed the order on to the rest of the men. They all turned their horses, dug in their heels, and rode back in the direction of the rebel camp. Columbia lagged behind them, deliberately allowing them to ride far enough ahead that he eventually became separated from the group.

Pulling his horse to a halt, Columbia turned in the saddle to look over the British camp in the distance. He reached into his saddlebag, fumbling around for the spyglass again. With the spyglass in one hand, Columbia then nudged his horse forward, edging a little closer to the British camp. As he came to a halt, he held up the spyglass to scan the camp again.

Soldiers continued to wander the campsite, but there was something odd about the arrangement. A substantial number of the men were not in British uniform, and appeared noticeably fatigued in comparison to their British comrades.

_That's the remainder of the Loyalist force, I'll bet, _Columbia thought. _But, where is that boy?_

He continued scanning the camp. Several minutes went by, but the Loyalist personification never appeared. Letting out a sigh of annoyance, Columbia reluctantly put the spyglass away and took up the reins, ready to return to Hamilton's camp.

Out of the corner of his eye, something moved. Columbia froze, and stared in that direction, but with the day's light almost totally gone, he couldn't make out what the thing was. Feeling wary, Columbia slowly reached for the sling of his rifle, and unlsung the weapon from his shoulder, all the while keeping an eye on the figure in the distance.

As the mysterious figure approached, it took clearer shape, and Columbia finally identified it as a horse and rider. As they came even closer, the rider turned out to be holding the reins in one hand, and waving what appeared to be cloth in the other. Columbia cocked the rifle, and pivoted his horse so he'd have a better angle to shoot, but did not yet raise the gun to aim. The other rider continued to come closer.

Then, when there remained about thirty feet between them, the other rider halted and dismounted. Columbia met the rider's gaze, and, finally recognizing him, immediately pointed his rifle at the boy's chest.

"Don't!" the Loyalist boy cried, raising both arms over his head. "I come under flag of truce!"

At that, he waved the cloth in his hand one more time, which Columbia finally recognized, despite the poor light, was indeed a white flag. Somewhat reluctantly, Columbia lowered the rifle.

"What do you think you're doing?" he asked.

"I'd ask you the same question," the Loyalist boy replied. "Why ride this far into my territory alone?"

"Why are you so far from your soldiers' camp, also alone?" Columbia shot back. "What do you want?"

The Loyalist boy draped the flag over his horse's saddle, then led the animal forward, closing the gap between himself and Columbia. Columbia, meanwhile, remained in the saddle, one hand still firmly gripping his rifle.

"A proper introduction, first," the Loyalist boy said.

"You're the Loyalist Confederation. I know."

"My name is Alexander."

Columbia blinked, confused for a tiny fraction of a second. "Matthew."

Alexander nodded.

"I want to speak with you, nation to nation," he said.

Columbia's eyes narrowed. "Why?" he asked.

"Because I think we both know how this war is going to end," Alexander replied. "You rebels aren't going to stop until you've wrested _all_ of the colonies from me. You won't stop until there is nothing left of me."

"That is not – " Columbia began, but abruptly cut himself off. He struggled to formulate the rest of his reply, but Alexander interrupted him.

"Why did Alfred die?"

Columbia visibly tensed up, and he clutched the reins closer to his chest.

"England never explained the details?" he said, anger edging into his tone. He let out a forced, bitter laugh. "He didn't explain it to me, either."

He paused, taking a moment to look over the younger nation standing in front of him. When Alexander said nothing in response, Columbia finally decided to dismount as well. Even now that they both stood at the same level, Columbia still towered over the younger nation's child-sized frame. He rested the butt of the rifle on the ground, keeping the weapon upright with his left hand on the barrel.

"What's it to you, anyway?" Columbia said.

At this point, Alexander began to fidget, toying with the reins and shifting his feet.

"England admitted that he shot Alfred himself, but he also said that he never intended to kill him," he said. "He also told me that humans _can't _kill us. So does that mean that we are only vulnerable to each other?"

Columbia nodded.

"If one of us were to kill the other right now, could we end the war?" Alexander asked.

Columbia shook his head.

"It doesn't work that way; we're not as fragile as humans are," he said. "Nor can we be killed 'accidentally'. England lied to you. He _murdered_ my brother."

"He was killed in battle! That's not murder!"

"I told you, simple battle wounds won't kill us," Columbia countered. "There's something else that happened in that battle that England hasn't told either one of us."

"Like what? I don't understand!"

Columbia took a step back and sighed.

"Something Prussia explained to me recently," Columbia said. "He's received fatal wounds at the hands of fellow nations before, and survived. He says it's because our connection to the people we represent is what keeps us alive."

"…so if we lose that connection, we die?" Alexander asked. "That's what happened to Alfred, then? But, how did he lose it?"

"That's what England won't tell me, or _anyone_, for that matter," Columbia said. "After all this time, he still won't tell me _why_."

Both nations fell silent for a brief moment.

"But what if England doesn't know why?" Alexander suggested finally.

"He does know, he just won't tell me," Columbia said. "I doubt he'll tell you either."

Alexander bit his lip and looked away for a moment.

"We'll see about that," he muttered under his breath.

"What was that?" Columbia demanded, taking half a step forward, one hand still gripping his rifle.

Alexander looked Columbia directly in the eye.

"You know you lost your connection with the southern colonies to me, right?" he said. "What will happen to me if you take them back?"

"You – "

Columbia balked. _He'd have nothing left to personify, would he?_

"I… I don't know…"

"Yes, you do," Alexander said. "You just won't tell me."

Columbia inwardly winced at the sudden anger in the other nation's voice. However, being unable to see Alexander's face clearly in the darkness, he missed the fear that had filled the boy's eyes as well.

With that, Alexander folded up the flag and stuffed it into his saddlebag. He mounted his horse and rode away, disappearing quickly in the night. Meanwhile, Columbia stared off in the direction Alexander had gone, the younger nation's words still ringing in his ears.

**(-)**

The next day, Hamilton's army continued marching south, but the combined British-Loyalist force that Columbia and his scouts found the previous night had seemingly disappeared. A second scouting mission revealed that the regiment had doubled back, and was on its way to defend Richmond.

Columbia made a habit out of riding with the cavalry on scouting missions as they surveyed the area for enemy presence while Hamilton's main force lagged behind. As the army neared Richmond, British presence increased. Around the city itself, British and Loyalist forces had built extensive fortifications in preparation for the rebel assault.

As the days faded from July into August, General Hamilton placed the rebel encampment several miles out, and spent several days sending men on reconnaissance missions. As with the scouting missions, Columbia participated in these as well. When he returned, he would join Hamilton in conferring with his staff to devise a strategy for capturing Richmond.

Unfortunately, the more intelligence Columbia and his men gathered, the worse things looked. British reinforcements, combined with the forces already entrenched in the area, now outnumbered the rebel army. At this point, needing a revision of the rebel strategy, General Hamilton summoned Columbia and the other officers early in the morning for a meeting. They all huddled around the table in the command pavilion, and Hamilton spread out the maps drawn by his scouts.

"Even with General Greene's division to support us, the sheer number of men in those fortifications would make a direct assault practically suicide," Hamilton said.

"Bombard crucial points in their defenses with as much artillery as we can use," one of the colonels suggested. "Exploit the weak points until we can gradually push them back."

Columbia nodded thoughtfully.

"We should surround the city," he said. "Cut off all supply to it, and lay siege."

"Depending on how much food and water they already have, we would be waiting out here through the winter," Hamilton said. "With nowhere within miles to safely use for our winter quarters, we cannot afford to wait that long."

"It's possible to defeat them before winter sets in," the colonel said, but winced even as he spoke. "But it's very risky…"

Columbia looked at Hamilton.

"What would happen if we decided to wait until spring to renew our assault?" he asked.

"It would give both sides time to regroup and gather reinforcements," Hamilton replied. "And drag the war out for even longer."

Silence fell on the meeting. While Hamilton and the other officers exchanged uncomfortable glances, doubtlessly trying to formulate strategies in their minds, Columbia also turned his attention inward, but for a different purpose. He assessed the strength of his armies, feeling the power of thousands of soldiers rushing through his veins. Unfortunately, those thousands were spread all up and down the ten colonies; there were not enough men in any one area to launch a viable offensive anywhere. The largest force apart from Hamilton's division was still stationed at West Point.

"We could call for our French allies to march south from West Point to support us," Columbia said.

"And we could bombard the city while we wait…" Hamilton added, though he mumbled it to himself.

Another, shorter pause followed, and then Hamilton suddenly went to the little writing desk in the corner of the pavilion. He grabbed a pen, some paper and ink, and quickly rejoined everyone else at the larger table.

"Bring a courier to relay this order immediately," Hamilton said, pointing at the colonel, who nodded and promptly left to summon the courier. Before the man had even reached the tent's entrance, Hamilton laid the paper flat on the table and began writing as fast as he could.

Hamilton scrawled out his order in less than a minute. He sealed the paper, and spent the next minute impatiently tapping the corner of the paper on the tabletop while he waited for the courier. When the courier arrived, Hamilton strode over and thrust the order into the man's hands right as he entered the pavilion.

"Deliver this to General Lafayette in West Point posthaste," Hamilton said.

The courier nodded and practically ran right back out. As he left, the colonel returned and took his place at the table once more.

"Ready the artillery," Hamilton said. Leaving the pen and ink on the table, he then left the tent.

Columbia and the other officers followed their general out. The officers went to see to their regiments, but Columbia went directly to his tent.

He sat down and sorted through the box containing the majority of his possessions, and eventually pulled out the spyglass he used on scouting missions. Turning the device over and over in his hands, Columbia quickly got lost in thought.

_Alexander is determined not to let me past Richmond… he knows my army can't go around it without provoking a British-Loyalist attack on the Maryland border…_

Columbia put the spyglass into his satchel, then set the satchel aside and reached for his rifle.

_But if Richmond falls, the rest of the South is as good as won…_

His thought was suddenly interrupted by the intrusion of an all too familiar memory. A memory that wasn't even his.

"_Get up! Please!"_

Columbia dropped the rifle and gripped the sides of his head.

"Damn it…" he muttered. _Why is this stuck in my head?!_

For a minute, he just sat there, hands still on his head. He stared at the ground, thinking.

_England said it was a vision,_ he thought. _It feels more like a memory; like I'm seeing it how America himself actually saw it…_

_But why? Why is his dying memory stuck in my head? _

"England…"

Columbia lowered his hands. _England probably knows, _he thought. _Then again, this will probably have to wait until after the war…_

He picked up his rifle and rose to his feet. Taking only one step towards the tent entrance, Columbia immediately halted and stared down at the rifle. He held it out in front of him with both hands as he examined the weapon, paying attention specifically to the initials inscribed on it. Continuing to hold the gun steady in his right hand, he ran his fingers over America's initials with his left.

_It's almost over, Alfred…_

Meanwhile, outside the tent, activity increased. Men scrambled to ready the cannons and limbers in anticipation of going to bombard the fortifications at Richmond. In just a few minutes, they would move out. Columbia spent those few minutes continuing to stare contemplatively at his rifle. Thoughts, both of America's memory and the recent conversation with the Loyalist Confederation raced around in his head.

When the officers finally shouted out the order to march, Columbia slung the rifle over his shoulder and ran out of his tent to join the battery as it moved out. The march itself was short, and the men quickly set about putting the cannons into position.

Less than an hour later, the barrage started.

Columbia made his way to the extreme left of the battery line and pulled his spyglass out of his satchel. At first, he simply held it in his hand while he stared out at the Loyalist's fortifications. After the first two volleys of artillery fire, during the lull in between the second and third volleys, Columbia then lifted the spyglass up to his eye and surveyed the fortifications again.

_Where is he?_

Columbia turned the lens on the city itself, but did not look at it for long. At this distance, it was almost impossible to see anything that would have been of much use. As the third volley commenced, Columbia lowered his spyglass. He kept it in his hand, however, and stood in silence as he watched the artillery shells fly.

Hours passed, and the commander finally ordered a ceasefire. It was nearly sundown, and the batteries needed to replenish their powder and ammunition. Columbia, instead of staying with the artillery, retired to the main camp, where he immediately collapsed upon entering his tent.

**(-)**

General Hamilton sent another courier to call for supplies from all the nearby arsenals while the rebel artillery continued its bombardment of Richmond and the surrounding fortifications. Over the course of the next several weeks, food, powder, and ammunition flowed in from Maryland and Pennsylvania. At the same time, Hamilton and Greene gradually scooted their armies closer to the enemy's fortifications. But they would not order an offensive until their French allies joined them.

Finally, in mid-September, the French troops did arrive, with France himself leading the column alongside General Lafayette. The rebel army greeted their arrival with jubilant shouting, but the celebration was short-lived. General Hamilton allowed the armies a day to rest, and then gave the order to attack.

They pushed their way through fortifications that had already been torn apart by cannon fire in the weeks prior. Loyalist militia gave up their outermost positions without much of a fight, but the closer the rebel army got, the harder the Loyalists fought. They forced the rebels to drag out the battle outside the city for several very bloody days, fighting with a ferocity that surprised even Columbia.

Lafayette ordered his men to set up their own artillery. They had brought down several Prussian guns from West Point, and those guns joined the rebels' in renewing the bombardment of the city. The joint rebel-French army held a defensive position in the trenches they had taken from the Loyalists, while Hamilton attempted to send a message into the city to demand a surrender.

The Loyalist reply came almost immediately. Hamilton read the letter first, then promptly called Columbia and France into conference. They met in the general's pavilion, about half a mile away from the battlefield.

Each man sat down at the table in the center of the pavilion. Hamilton lay the letter on the table, and Columbia reached for it first.

"Do you think the other personification himself wrote that?" Hamilton asked as Columbia began to read.

Columbia frowned at the barely legible scrawl.

"Probably," he said. "Why?"

"What British general would demand a peace deal allowing just the four southern colonies to remain under British rule?" Hamilton said.

Columbia raised an eyebrow. He finished reading the letter, then handed it to France. France quietly read the letter while Columbia and Hamilton continued their conversation.

"Congress would think the British were trying to compromise," Columbia said.

"I don't care what Congress thinks."

"You might not have a choice."

France finished the letter and lay it back on the table.

"Now that they've lost in the northern colonies, England's army and navy are completely focused on the South," France said.

"My armies are too spread out to resist a British counterattack out of the South," Columbia added. "If King George sends a strong enough force, they could push us right back to New York, if not further. These colonies have already lost one revolution; we will not risk losing a second."

"Who is 'we'? Congress?" Hamilton asked.

"I am the nation, remember?" Columbia said. "The people, the military, Congress… I'm all of it. And I can already tell that people would rather break with our sister colonies in the South than risk the entire country being pulled back under British tyranny… again."

"If you can feel that, then surely you can also feel that some of us would rather take Richmond, and come to the negotiation table ready to demand all fourteen colonies?" Hamilton retorted. "Wasn't that the whole point of a 'United States of America'? Uniting the entire continent under one banner?"

Columbia did not answer. Hamilton and France spent an uncomfortably long time waiting for a reply before Hamilton finally broke the silence.

"Damn it, Columbia, don't tell me you've given up!" he said.

When Columbia still said nothing, Hamilton abruptly stood up and left in frustration. France stared after the general, even for several seconds after he had gone. Presently, he returned his attention to Columbia.

"Do your people truly feel that we cannot win the South?" France asked quietly.

"Some of them do," Columbia said. "Including most of Congress."

He pointed at the letter.

"And you've read that letter; if the Loyalists hold us to a stalemate for much longer, those British reinforcements from the Carolinas would show up in time to slaughter us."

"Not necessarily," France said. "Give your generals a little more time."

Columbia sighed in exasperation and shook his head.

_I guess it really is going to have be either Alexander or me,_ he thought. _We won't both survive this war…_

"Fine," he said.

With that, he and France left the pavilion, leaving Alexander's letter on the table. Columbia ran to catch up to Hamilton, who was already on his way back to the front. France trailed behind.

Hamilton gave the order to renew the attack. From the safety of Hamilton's command, Columbia took out his spyglass once again and surveyed the Loyalist lines. There was still no trace of the Loyalist Confederation.

The rebel army successfully pushed the Loyalists closer to the city by the end of the day. Rebel artillery kept firing well into the night, and early the next morning, the fighting started again. This time, Columbia himself joined the fray. Drawing on as much of his nation's willpower as he could, Columbia instilled in himself a ferocity at least equaling that of the Loyalists. His men, as if sensing it, seemed to draw on it themselves as they fought closer and closer to Richmond proper.

Finally, after another costly day of fighting, the rebel army breached the Loyalist line and entered Richmond. The Loyalist garrison surrendered quickly thereafter.

Columbia, France, Hamilton, and Lafayette walked up to the city hall to formally accept the Loyalist surrender. When they entered, they were confronted with the sight of a handful of Loyalist officers, and the Loyalist personification himself.

Columbia winced at the sight of his fellow nation. Alexander's skin was noticeably paler than normal, he had dark circles under his eyes, and he appeared to have lost weight. Worse, he was covered in bandages that were completely soaked in blood. While Columbia had also sustained a few wounds, they were minor in comparison. In addition, his accelerated healing had already kicked in. Alexander, on the other hand, looked half dead.

The commanders of the two sides conducted the formalities of the surrender. After they finished, the commanders went back outside, but Columbia and Alexander lingered.

"You have your victory," Alexander said. Even his voice was weak. "Word of this will reach the Crown, and within months, you'll have all of the colonies to yourself."

"And you're still alive," Columbia said.

Alexander gestured at the rifle slung over Columbia's shoulder. He didn't say anything, but the look in his eyes was clear enough.

Columbia glared at the boy in a mixture of anger and disgust.

"No," he said. "There's been enough death already."

With that, he turned and left.


	29. Epilogue

After Richmond fell, the British reinforcements that would have defended it were forced to retreat. News spread like wildfire, and Patriot support poured into the city. By the end of October, the entire Virginia colony was back under Patriot control.

The British armies that had surrendered in the months prior were already being sent back to Britain with the news of their defeat. England himself reluctantly joined them. He spent the entire voyage trying in vain to prepare himself for his king's reaction. Meanwhile, Columbia returned to Philadelphia for the winter.

Hamilton and Greene saw to defending the Virginia border. Their task proved an easy one; the Loyalists never launched a single attack. The Patriot army spent the whole winter on alert, in anticipation of surprise raids or attempts to retake land, but the attacks never came. Then, in early March, just when General Hamilton was about to restart the southern campaign, he received a letter from the president of Congress announcing Britain's official surrender.

The war was over.

Hamilton did not completely disband the Continental Army, however. The men whose enlistments were almost expired he allowed to return home, but the rest stayed to protect the Virginia border. He stayed as well, and sent letters to Columbia and to Congress requesting further instructions. About a week later, Congress sent instructions to try to open negotiations with representatives from the southern colonies.

While Hamilton sent a party into North Carolina under the flag of truce, Columbia headed to New York with two representatives of his own. They spent only one night in the city before going straight to the harbor. From there, they boarded the first ship bound for France.

**(-)**

Several weeks later, after arriving in France, Columbia and his representatives met with England and his representatives in Paris. After completing the negotiations, they would finally sign the peace treaty to end the war. At last, seven long years after the last revolution, the North American colonies would finally have their independence.

Columbia sat at the table in the center of the room, staring intently at the door. Though he kept his expression blank, his whole body was tense with nervous anticipation. He watched the door for a minute in total silence, sitting absolutely still except for the index finger of his right hand as he tapped incessantly on the table's edge. When the door finally opened, Columbia jumped. Quickly regaining his composure, Columbia fixed his attention on the person now entering the room.

England took half a step inside and pivoted slightly. He glanced behind him as if waiting for someone else, but then walked further into the room, leaving the door ajar. As he placed a hand on the back of the nearest chair, he looked in Columbia's direction, and the two nations locked gazes for a second.

England looked away first, and quietly sat down in his chair. He spent the rest of the time before the meeting started staring at the wall. Columbia forced himself to stop tapping on the table, and took to playing with the edge of his sleeve instead.

The rest of the negotiators on both sides eventually filed in and took their seats. England tore his gaze away from the wall to pay attention to the proceedings. Columbia stopped fidgeting.

The meeting went on for quite some time while the two nations mostly just listened in. But as the subject moved on to the issue of the southern colonies, Columbia suddenly became visibly agitated.

"Those colonies have already declared their loyalty to the Crown," one of the men from England's side said. "Do not force them to join themselves to your nation against their will."

"The Tory militia declared their loyalty to the Crown, and forced the inhabitants of our sister colonies to cooperate," Columbia's representative shot back. "I tell you right now, there is as strong a Patriot presence there as there was in 1776."

"And what of the colonists who still wish to live as British subjects?" the English negotiator said. "If you take those colonies, you leave them nowhere to go."

"They can return to Britain, along with the rest of your armies."

"Nor are these colonies the only British possessions in the New World," Columbia's other representative added. "Our fellow colonists will not be left without recourse."

Columbia lowered his gaze. He stared at his hands, which now rested idle on his knees. Meanwhile, the memory of the sight of Alexander after the Battle of Richmond suddenly forced its way into his thoughts.

_He was still alive when I took Virginia back,_ he thought. _Could he still personify the southern colonies, even if they were returned to my control?_

The argument over the southern colonies went on and on. By the time the meeting adjourned, the issue was still unresolved. Columbia and England's representatives left, but the two nations remained at the table. They sat in uncomfortable silence for a minute, until Columbia finally got up and headed for the door.

He placed his hand on the handle, but hesitated to open the door. He turned his head slightly, and he and England exchanged glances for the first time since the meeting began.

"They won't stop, will they?" England said.

"They intend to have one united country," Columbia replied. "The southern colonies fought for independence in the last war. We won't leave them to continue to suffer under British rule."

"And what of the Loyalist Confederation?"

Columbia tightened his grip on the handle.

"He survived the Battle of Richmond," he said. "I left him in General Hamilton's custody. When I return, I will meet with him to discuss… postwar arrangements."

England's eyes narrowed into an accusatory glare.

"And what might those be?" he demanded.

Columbia's hand turned and pulled a little too strongly on the door handle. The door slammed into the adjacent wall, damaging the door's hinges. When Columbia released the handle, the handle had also deformed under his grip.

"I'm not going to kill him, if that's what you're asking," he said curtly.

With that, he strode out of the room. Leaving the broken door hanging open behind him, Columbia hurried down the hall, not stopping until he reached his private quarters. He went inside and promptly locked the door.

Meanwhile, England remained seated in the meeting room for a little longer. Half a minute after Columbia had gone, England slowly rose from his chair and made his way to the door. He halted at the door, looking at the damage Columbia had done to it.

"My God…"

_America used to do this, before he learned how to control his strength,_ England thought. _What is happening to Canada? First his eyes, now the strength… even his personality seems to have become more like America…_

_And what of Alexander? Even if Canada himself doesn't kill him, the loss of the colonies will… _

**(-)**

June 1787.

After several weeks of negotiations, England and Columbia finally reached an agreement, and the peace treaty was signed. England ceded the three southern colonies to the newly independent United States of Columbia. In return, Columbia arranged for colonists wishing to remain loyal to the Crown to have safe passage either back to Britain, or to the British colonies in the Caribbean. Immediately after seeing the treaty signed, Columbia returned to New York.

Jubilation filled the air wherever he went. Independence celebrations lasted for days in some places. But Columbia wasn't ready to join in his people's festivities just yet. There were a few things he needed to do first. He saddled up and rode south.

Upon returning to Virginia, Columbia went to General Hamilton's headquarters in Richmond and immediately arranged a meeting with him, asking about Alexander.

"Alexander Jones? The child we took into our custody after the Battle of Richmond?" Hamilton said.

Columbia nodded, and Hamilton let out a heavy sigh.

"I released him and the other prisoners of war a month ago," Hamilton said.

"Do you know where he went?" Columbia asked. "I need to speak with him."

Hamilton shook his head slowly. "Unfortunately, I don't think that's possible," he said. "According to the latest reports, he's dead."

"What?!"

_That's not possible; only another nation could have – oh…__ no... what have I done..._

"Just a few days ago, I was informed of the death of a young Loyalist leader named Alexander Jones," Hamilton said. "Unless it's just a coincidence, and there was someone else by the same name – "

Columbia shook his head.

"No," he said. "He… was the Loyalist Confederation. It makes sense…"

"He was one of your kind?" Hamilton asked. He looked thoughtful for a second, then confused. "Then that report may be mistaken. If you didn't kill him – "

"He has nothing left. Every British colony on this continent is part of me now."

Hamilton didn't say anything, but the realization quickly showed on his face. Columbia stared at the floor for a minute, then abruptly stood up and made his way to the door.

"What are you doing?" Hamilton asked.

"I have nothing else to do here," Columbia replied. "I'm going back to New York. There's someone else I need to visit…"

He dismissed himself and started down the corridor, headed for the exit. He only made it halfway before abruptly stopping in his tracks. Burying his face in one hand, he leaned against the wall and slowly sank to his knees as he silently cursed himself and wept.

**(-)**

Columbia arrived in New York in early July, still reeling from Hamilton's news. Instead of going into the city, however, he went straight to Fort West Point. Since the war ended, and Lafayette returned to France, the fort's garrison was almost completely gone. Only a token handful of soldiers remained to keep an eye on things. The rest had since returned home to their families.

Still, Columbia never went to the fort itself. He wandered along the paths leading to it, but stopped at a familiar spot. He wandered off the path and into the woods. Eventually, he reached a clearing.

He halted briefly. Reaching into his satchel, he felt around for a certain roll of parchment. When he found it, he closed his fingers around it, but did not yet withdraw it from the satchel. Slowly, he walked further into the clearing.

As he reached the far side of the clearing, he halted once more, and knelt in front of America's grave. At last, he withdrew the parchment. He broke the seal and unrolled the paper, placing it in front of the grave.

"I've finally done it, Alfred," Columbia said. "Here is the peace treaty. The war's over."

A smile briefly tugged at his lips, but it didn't last.

"Our people are free," he continued. "But I made mistakes on the way, and I've paid for them dearly."

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath as if to steel himself.

"I fought this war to avenge you… but now I too have a nation's blood on my hands. Tell Alexander… I'm sorry."

Columbia heaved a sigh. He stayed where he was for a few moments longer, staring absently at the inscription of America's name on the wooden cross in front of him. Not wanting to leave yet, he lowered himself into a seated position on the grass.

_I should return to New York,_ he thought. _I can't torture myself like this forever…_

Several minutes later, he gave up, rolled up the copy of the treaty, and put it back in his satchel. He then rose to his feet.

But he still hesitated to leave. He turned slightly as if to go, but did not leave his spot. As he continued to stare down at America's grave, a summer breeze blew through the clearing, ruffling Columbia's hair. Off in the distance, there was a low rumble of cannon fire. Yet there was no battle – these were shots of celebration.

"They're celebrating our independence today," Columbia said. "And it sounds like the celebration has started."

He allowed himself to smile, even if it was only for a second.

"Happy birthday, America."


End file.
